A One Night Stand-Up

Pushing my way through this busy after hours in mid-town Manhattan, I notice him leaning on the bar, and concentrating on finishing his pint. He is alone, or his friends are somewhere else. Outside smoking. Maybe his girlfriend is in the toilet.

He has short, brown hair, and just enough facial scruff to bring a dusty glow to his chiselled features. He’s taller then me, which can be anywhere over 5’3”. I can’t tell the specifics from down here, and can only call someone “really tall” when my head falls back to a 45 degree angle as I look up at them. He’s well built, and his biceps are protruding from under his short sleeves. He is wearing something I would wear if I were a guy. I know this chosen outfit well, as whenever I spend over an hour ripping through each item of my clothing trying to get dressed in the morning; I end up in tears, hating that I am a woman, and forced out of the simple wardrobe of loose fitting jeans, and an old t-shirt.

As I continue pushing my way through the loud, drunk crowd that are all still awake thanks to copious amounts of cocaine; I plan my actions carefully, and throw my character into confident mode. As I grow near I can see that one of his hands has a firm grip on the barstool next to him, leading me to believe that someone who is meant to return momentarily is occupying it.

“That’s my seat!” I say arrogantly, trying to get a reaction out of him. How he responds will determine my compatibility with him. I hold a very serious expression on my face, and wait. He makes eye contact, and smirks. His face is perfect. His look throws my confidence off, and weakens me.

“Then this must be your drink.” He ads sharply, and slides his pint over to me. He is charming, and funny, and already playing along with my ridiculous games.

“I hope you managed to get a roofie in there without me seeing!”

“Two actually. I heard one doesn’t work on you anymore.”

I laugh loudly, and genuinely. That’s my line! Wait. Does he know me? Have I said this to him before? My mind scours through a thousand blurry nights where I am sitting at a bar talking to a someone that could have looked exactly like him, and when I excuse myself to go to the bathroom; I point to my drink, and say, “Make sure you put a roofie in there…but one doesn’t work anymore, so make it 2!” It’s a crowd pleaser, and one that I’ve been using for years, but on him? Could one of those fuzzy faces have been him? And if not, I can’t believe he uses my line. I investigate further…

“How did you know?” I ask safely.

“You look like a party girl. Like you can handle your shit.”

We have the same line. Smiling, I stare into his familiar eyes. They reply with interest. A spark is ignited. Chemistry is formed. Comfort, and safety is set between us, and so the night begins.

“You wanna shot party girl?” He asks invitingly. If I say yes, we won’t stop until the bartender kicks us out.

“Shots!” I yell instinctively while claiming my seat, and throwing my bag over the back of it.

“Shots!” He yells even louder, playing along. He’s in for the long haul.

He motions for the bartender to come over with one of his perfectly defined arms. He has just the right amount of arm hair, and is borderline tanned. Maybe he’s from the West Coast. Maybe he goes to the tanning salon. Or maybe his Dad is Moroccan. He looks like he enjoys a good couscous.

“2 shots of Tequila.” He says almost excitedly to the closest bartender that heard our noise. “Patron.” He ads confidently. “The orange one.” And as he points it out to the bartender on the top shelf; I am, aware of how thick his wallet will be when he takes it out of his back pocket. If there’s one thing I’ve gained from working behind a bar in Manhattan for the last 3 years, is the ability to describe what a mans wallet is going to look like before they take it out.

This guy knows what he wants to drink, and doesn’t mind dishing out $13 a shot to get it. He’s cool; comfortable in his own skin, and understands the beauty of small talk. His watch is made by Swiss Army, and his t-shirt by Diesel. He’s a brand name man, but a casual dresser. He’s probably never worked a hard day in his life, and most of what he owns was purchased on his Parents credit.

The bartender swings back around with the chosen poison. “That’ll be 26 bucks.” He says unimpressed by the sale, as he looks me up, and down. He’s probably wondering what happed to the last girl that was sitting in this seat. From the snarl in his upper lip, I can tell he liked her better.

He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, and I get a wave of excitement. I wait for it…wait for it…here it is, and bang on! Brown, leather, and made by Fossil. I compliment myself with an inner, “you are so good” when I see the white stitching around the edges. I never cease to amaze myself. I smile with contentment, and am now sure I’ve got the rest of the night in the bag. I have to be careful, though, I warn myself. Sometimes when I’m drunk; my confidence turns into a very obnoxious arrogance, and I’ll lose grip of him.

He picks up his shot glass to cheers me, and I follow the leader. Having spilt a little during the clinking process; he quickly moves his mouth closer to his shot glass, and is about to down it when I stop him with an, “Eye contact!” Louder now, “Eye contact!” He looks into my eyes, and I re-clink his glass, and down the hatch. He wipes 50 cents of his tequila shot from off the stubble that surrounds his mouth, and performs a facial expression that makes me want to lick the rest of him, just in case he missed a spot. I can’t believe how hot he is. He looks like someone out of a jeans advert on television.

“What is that? Eye contact?” He gets a little closer as he says this. As if trying to find out this secret that’s obviously been kept from him his entire life.

“Eye contact…or 7 years of bad sex.” I say maliciously; having just thrown that dirty word out on the table for him to tear apart letter by letter until we’re both naked, and barbarically going at it in one of the stalls in the men’s toilet.

“Fucking hell!” He says horrified. “That’s like…” and as he is counting a lifetime away of bad sex out on his fingers I know that none of it will matter in a few hours when I will be proving my own credo wrong by having the best sex ever.

We both laugh at different things, and his eyes leave mine, and jump somewhere behind me. I suddenly get really nervous, and convince myself that the hottest girl ever is returning from her trip to the loo. As he gets ready to speak, I begin to plan my exit. The thought of what lurks behind me makes me wish I never sat here in the first place, and I reach for my bag on the back of my chair.

“Who are you here with?” He interrupts with a hint of worry stuck in his throat.

“Just a few friends from work.” I lie. I normally drag a few people with me, but tonight nobody made it past 3am, and having just finished my bar shift I was looking for a night cap, and a nice chat with a stranger.

“Who are you here with?” I ask without turning around to see what his nervous eyes are still looking at behind me. I want to save myself from the cruel vision of seeing his insanely hot date.

“No one. My friends left a while ago. Thought I’d stick around and see what the night brings.”

“Having heard the exact opposite words I thought to come out of his mouth, I turn around to see what he is looking at. I notice some guy staring in our direction. He looks slightly intimidating in his wannabe wrestler get-up, and his stance looks like it’s about to snap into a “full nelson” or a “figure four” any second now. I chuckle to myself that I can still name wrestling manoeuvres, and reminisce for a moment of all those Sundays I spent watching WWF at PJ’s pub with the boys.

“Who is that?” I question in my made up detective dialect. It’s how I remember Go-Go Gadget to speak like, but might also be slightly mixed up with the Pink Panther.

“I don’t know. I thought he was your big ass boyfriend waiting for me to make my move-“

And together we finish, “…so he can make his!”

We both smile, and nod at our ability to flow identically, and I give my shot glass a knock on the bar.

“You ready?” He asks knowing my answer. And to his expectations I grin, and call for shots.

It takes us almost 2 hours to finish a bottle of Orange Patron, and talk about things like his trust fund, and my inability to have a serious relationship. And even though we’ve only known each other for just over 120 minutes, we feel like we’ve known each other forever. As he tells me about pretending to go to law school, I fall in love with him. It becomes more then sexual, and I start picturing him pushing our first born on a swing. Coaching our son’s little league team, and building our back porch…on a hot day…wearing minimal clothing.

He tears me from my domestic daydreams with a hand on the back of my head. And as he pulls me into him I get scared. This happens every time someone else makes the first move.

It brings me back to my teens. Standing behind a tall wooden fence in a parking lot with Ritch Rosenthall. It’s the middle of winter, and he’s got his freezing cold hands halfway down my pants, and his tongue slipping in and out of my mouth. I stand there motionless not knowing how to react to my own feelings. I want to give into the lust, but my inexperience leads me astray. He took my virginity, and gave me a weird sex complex. If I’m not in control, I fall silent, and shy just like that little girl virgin I was so long ago.

I stare blankly into the eyes of my newfound love that from this status could be Ritch Rosenthall’s, and I wait. He presses his forehead into mine, and leaves it there. My eyes are closed, and my heart is pounding. One of my hands is holding onto my empty shot glass, and the other is resting awkwardly by my side not knowing what to do with itself. I want to use it to grab the hair on the back of his head, and pull him even further into me. Inside of me. But, he has full control; and I am frozen with fear.

“Let’s go to mine.” He mumbles.

“What?” I ask having heard exactly what he’s said.

“Let’s go…” He releases the tension between our foreheads, “…to mine.”

He takes my bag from over the back of my chair, and helps me into a standing position.

“Thank-you!” He blurts loudly, and shoots a twenty onto the bar.

Arm in arm we stumble out of the door, and into the unexpected light of day.

“What time is it?” I’m worried about what I must look like in this practical sunshine, and reach for my shades in my bag, which he is still holding.

“Five…Six. We’ve been in there for a while.”

Trying hard not to put too much weight on my bag, which feels weird looking through when it’s not hanging off my own shoulder; I finally find my sun shields, and defend myself.

“Where do you live?” I ask putting my arm back through his, and he points to a building across the street. I look up at it, and although I’ve seen it a million times before on my way to work; I’ve never had any personal connection to it, and couldn’t see it’s individuality from the rest of the buildings on this block. Taking a more connected look now, I can see how spectacular it is. With its own half circle driveway, big glass doors, marble lobby, and hanging crystal chandeliers. I hold onto his arm tightly, and caress his wrist with my hand.

As we walk through the automatic lobby doors, he waves at the doorman, and I deliver a guilty nod. We are obviously drunk, and I am obviously not the first girl he’s walked through the doors with at this hour.

We wait for the elevator in silence. Too drunk to talk. Can barely stand. As the numbers take for what seems like forever to decrease down to L; I anticipate the porn scene about to be performed for the doorman on the hidden security cameras when the doors shut.

The mood changes slightly as we walk into the elevator, and he asks if I can smell cat litter. Oddly, I can, and we both giggle, and sniff around for sources. I lean into him, and he puts his warm, and comfortable arm around me. It feels like it’s meant to be there.

The doors open on the 19th floor, and to my disappointment we haven’t even kissed yet. With his arm still hugging my shoulders, he leads me down the burgundy-carpeted hallway to the beige corner door.

It’s taking him so long to find the keys in his pocket, and it suddenly dawns on me that I can’t remember this man’s name. I’m sure he’s told it to me at some point throughout the night, but for the life of me, I can’t even remember the first letter of it. R? Rick? Derrick. Darren. Darren…yes, it’s no…Darren? That doesn’t sound right. He doesn’t look like a Darren. He looks like a Ben, but I don’t think that’s what his name is.

As he troubleshoots the lock on the door with his un-coordinated hand, I stare at the gold plated numbers on the door. 1908. Why can’t they write people’s names on their doors instead? Life would be so much easier. I stick with Ben, and the door swings open.

Inside, I can’t believe my eyes. This place is jacked! I try not to look impressed as I make myself comfortable on his amazingly large L shaped couch.

“Each seat in that couch reclines.” He says proudly as he makes his way into his open kitchen that looks like it’s straight out of a town & country magazine. He opens his fridge, which has an ice and water maker on the front door. Something I’ve always envied in other people’s houses. He appears from behind the open fridge door, and holds up 2 beers. Becks. A safe stock.

I recline my seat of the couch, and admire his enormous entertainment unit amongst a bunch of other amenities that you wouldn’t usually find in a typical Manhattan flat. After rent in this overly priced city, you’d be lucky to buy yourself a decent can opener let alone the wall-to-wall carpeting that covers this 3-bedroom palace.

“How many roommates do you have?” Figuring he has at least two, and they’re all from the same rich town in Buffalo, where their parents all agreed that the only way their sons would be going to college in New York City would be if they were in a safe, and well equipped place like this.

“None…I’m a lonely bastard.”

He throws himself onto the couch next to me, passes me a beer, and reclines his seat all in one smooth move. He kicks his shoes off with relief. He is home. I wish I were.

I place my beer in between my legs, and clap my hands loudly in the air twice. A long breach of silence is broken by his curious laughter, and I quickly sip my beer acting like I am embarrassed by my little, odd outburst.

“What? You don’t have a clapper?”

He gets up laughing, and looks down at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.” He says offering me his hand. My first instinct is to pull him into me as hard as I can, and feel him penetrate me through our clothing. My beer would spill all over his couch. So would his. I would hate myself in a few years when we’re having company, and I have to cover up the stain with a blanket or a throw. By the time I decide that he can obviously afford a new one, he has already led me to a door that I hope belongs to the bedroom.

I am gob smacked upon unveiling what actually lies behind door number 1. Right there, in front of me, all lit up, and from the most amazing angle is the 59th street Bridge.

“Holly shit!” Is the only thing that can come out of my mouth as I step onto the balcony so big it has to be called a terrace.

I’ve crossed that bridge so many times. On the bus. Taxi. But, mostly by foot. 20 minutes, and you’re in Sunnyside, Queens – my stomping grounds. And on the way to the city, the most spectacular views. The water, the harbour, the over bearing high-rises that make up this magnificent city. The lights. The signs on the delis, and diners as you get closer. The aerial view of 1st avenue when you’re almost there. But, never have I seen it like this. I feel like I’m flying!

“Holly shit!” I repeat at least 7 times. I seriously have nothing else to say.
“Not bad, huh?” He says nonchalantly like he doesn’t have it made, and he doesn’t rule this world.

I start telling myself that you can’t marry someone for their view, but I’m too drunk to listen, and anyways; I’m in love with this guy! Whatever his name is. I really do love him. His style; his physique, his humour, his cabinets. I fucking love his cabinets!

“Do you smoke?” He interrupts just as we’re walking down the aisle in my head.

“Weed?” I ask automatically. My teens revolved around smoking pot, and always assume that’s what people’s intentions are.

“I have some, but I can’t roll it.”

He can’t roll! A man that can’t roll a joint is like a man that can’t jerk himself off properly. Someone’s gotta show him how to do it, and as soon as he learns, he’ll be so thankful.

“Let’s do it up.” I say clumsily making my way to wherever he keeps his stash.

We end up in his bedroom. I want to focus. I want to analyse every single picture, and scrap of paper in here, but I have no time. I need to teach him how to take care of himself.

I bring him through the process slowly. Explaining each step in great detail; and using as many jokes, and sexual innuendos as I can come up with in this fuzzy state.

I tear my perfect joystick apart, and tell him to have a go. Even though he is reluctant; I am certain that he will make his first ever properly rolled doobie, because I am Canadian, and like the Indians that made up my country, I am meant to pass on this indigenous method.

I almost feel sick when I am able to scan the room for pictures for the first time. There’s bound to be one of his girlfriend, who’s possibly away at school in another state. Or a picture of his X that he’s never gotten over. His wife that’s away on business – she probably picked out those cabinets. I need to keep drinking or I will ruin everything, and barf all over his wall-to-wall carpeting. I drink my beer as fast as possible, and hope whatever’s happening in my stomach goes away.

“I did it!” He almost screeches holding up my newly formed bond to him forever, and ever. I taught him how to roll; I am now a part of him.

“Let’s see how she smokes there, tough guy!” I light it for him as he tokes on his masterpiece. Watching him examine the outcome of his new skill, and seeing how impressed he is with himself, I melt. He’s genuine. I finally found a nice, cool, and intimidating hot guy whose name I can’t remember. A stream of paranoia rushes through my body as I inhale my cultural heritage. How am I going to find out his name? What if he gives me his number tomorrow morning after breakfast, and while I’m putting it in my phone he asks if I know how to spell it? I need his wallet. His driver’s licence. Or the post. I can find his mail; which will surely be in the kitchen near our cabinets.

The marijuana settles my stomach, and we are finally both lying down on his bed. He is spread out like a snow angel with his arms up over his head, and I am curled up in a ball waiting to be taken beside him. Dave Mathews is playing from his computer, and the lights are dimmed…or fuzzy. I sneak a peak at his face, and am shocked to see that his eyes are closed. I thought he would be deep in thought like me; wondering how to approach the next moment, and the rest of our lives.

I can never keep my eyes closed when I’m high. Too many thoughts, and high speed moving images. Makes my eyeballs flutter behind their lids. I carefully move myself closer to him, and place my head in his armpit. My nose presses into his lat, and I bite his side softly. He brings one of his arms down, and covers me with it. His fingertips just reach my lower back, and I am already excited by his touch. I stay motionless in this position for as long as I can, and then pounce on top of him like a cat in heat. He opens his eyes wide, and we are face to face.

“Hi.” He says surprised that I am this close.

I kiss him as gently, and elegantly as I can. I want to be much rougher, but he looks like he needs a tender introduction. He turns onto his side pushing me off of him, and pulls my face into his chest by wrapping his arms around me. I can’t breathe, and his tactics confuses me. I hope he doesn’t want to take it slow, because I am not leaving without seeing this guys cock. He is after all going to be my husband!

I hear a noise, and I can’t quite make out what it is. It sounds like Chewbacca stuck in a closet somewhere, but as I wiggle my ears out from his bicep hold; I realize the noise is coming from his mouth. He’s yawning! Insulted; I retract from his hug, and watch as he finishes his dramatic, sleepy noise.

“Are you tired?” I ask abruptly. “Should I go?”

I wait for him to pull me back, and kiss me, but instead he pulls himself up, and rubs his face with his hands.

“Normally I wouldn’t care, but yah; if you don’t mind, I have to get up really early tomorrow.”

Embarrassed, stoned, and speechless, I gather my belongings as fast as I can. What kind of sick joke is this, I ask God so loudly in my head that I’m probably mouthing the words. How could this be happening? Our first child was going to be named Red if it was a boy, and Syrah if it was a girl! I want to stay. I want to get down on my knees and beg. But, my instincts keep me walking straight to the door, acting like I have somewhere else to be. How am I going to face him with this look of horror on my face? Just smile; I tell myself. Make a joke about not knowing his name, and leave. I can’t do it; and I reach for the doorknob without even looking at him.

“Wait. Can I get you number?” He asks sheepishly from behind.

“Why?” He’s obviously just trying to make me feel better, and the last thing I want from him right now is pity.

“So we can hang out sometime.” He says almost unaware of how utterly devastated I am.

I turn to face him; knowing that I will probably never see him again. I feel like ripping one of his cabinets out from his kitchen wall, and taking what is rightfully mine.

“But, I’m here right now…” Jerk face! What the hell is your problem?

My facial expressions give it away, and he almost giggles when he says, “Uh…no. I’m gay. I thought you knew that.”

What? How would I know that? You’ve given me every possible reason to think otherwise – or has he? I stand there not knowing what to say or how to react, and re-evaluate the night’s events in my head. Is this just an excuse? A ploy to get me out of his place. Some sort of easy let down?

I want to run out onto the terrace, and lhandcuff myself to the railing, and refuse to leave until he’s straight. I want to move into one of his bedrooms, and sneak into his room every night when he’s asleep – under his covers – and teach him that a blow job from a woman can be just as good if not better. I want to drag that couch with me down 19 flights of steps, and plant it onto the 59th street Bridge where he will see me reclined everyday in his perfect view. Our view. It was supposed to be ours.

“Well; good luck with that.” And I leave, defeated.

My walk to the elevator is so much different then I would have imagined it to be the next morning. This is like a sitcom. This doesn’t happen in real life! A man picks up a woman in a bar, and brings her home to his place, and tells her he’s gay.

He’s gay? He’s not gay. I know gay when I see gay, and he is not gay! What would possess a gay man to spend hundreds of dollars on a woman who he is never going to sleep with? I would normally swear by my company, but that is not what he wanted. He pressed his forehead into mine like a straight man!

The doors to the elevator door open, and a terrifying thought sinks into my head like a ton of bricks. Who was that wrestler guy behind me the whole time? The one he kept looking at, and making him nervous. What if he was the rightful guardian of the barstool that I over confidently stole? Maybe they got into an argument before he left to the toilet…with another guy. With the bartender that tried to kill me with his dirty looks! Maybe this whole thing with me was an act of jealousy, and that’s why the wrestler was just lingering behind us…staring!

I get to the lobby, and I am now smiling broadly at the circumstances. This is crazy! Of course being high is making me jump to wild conclusions, but I trust my judgement. I have a sudden urge to ask the doorman if he’s ever seen the wrestler. I want the story. I won’t settle for the fact that he is simply gay. There’s got to be more to it.

“You need a taxi, Hun?” The doorman interrupts my thoughts.

I look at him in dyer need of help. I want to let him make me coffee, and tell me stories of the things he’s seen, and how my story is one the crazies he’s heard.

“Yah thanks.” I watch him make his way over to his desk in his trusty uniform, and pick up the phone. When he hangs up I take a few shy steps over to him, and ask, “You know that guy I came in with…”

He lifts one of his eyebrows up in a curious manner that tells me everything I need to know. “…What’s his name?”

“Dan.” He says with his hand on my shoulder, leading me out of the building that will always stand out from the others every time I walk past it on the way to work.

Dan. Dan’s place. Reclining Dan and his couch. Gay Dan & the wrestler. I re-title my story again, and again as my taxi drives me over the 59th street Bridge, and back to my cabinetless home.

* * *