The Big Apple and I
OK, so I went to take another bite out of Le Big Apple, but it growled at me.
I’m the kind of person that likes to find that place where everybody knows your name (“Norm”, apparently), and they’re always glad you came. Being new to this neck of the woods (though I been here almost a year now, go figure), I’d found a club / bar I was determined to call “home” (even if it’s real name was “Norm”). Lately though, it’s been losing it’s appeal. I found out where some of the ladies I wanted to teach how to say – or scream – my name had gone, and went after them.
That’s how come I went to lovergirl NYC yesterday. Totally focused on having a good time this time. And I wasn’t going to allow myself feel dejected if no one even asked what my name was, much less remembered it. I also chose a slightly more feminine set of clothing, just in case this had been the cause of my previous anonymity.
To give a little more background on that last point: Many of us…what’s that phrase? Ah yes…muff-divers. Many of us express resistance to being labeled “butch”, “stud”, or “femme”, due to the connotations of straightsville stereotyping evoked. I have found, however, that I do to some extent fulfill the stereotype of one of those labels. I am the giver, rather than receiver, if you know what I mean. The hunter, never the hunted. Please note this imagery does not extend to being “the stalker, and not the stalked”. This is not by conscious choice. I would love to have a woman actively pursue me, and I promise to show as little resistance as she would like. I’m just saying.
Anyway, since by my own words, you can’t “box me up and stick a label on me”, I decided to dress differently, and see what happened. It was a very enlightening experiment. Nothing happened.
Sometimes, you go to a bar, and you see some amazing woman all self-contained, sitting or standing by herself, and you know you have to go announce your existence in some way. Well, I was sorta hoping that I would be that woman, and that someone who’d been eyeing me all night would show up beside me and proclaim eternal submission to my charms. And God said “Ha!”.
I actually left the club 3 times. Each time I came back, I did so because of this ridiculous optimism: I thought maybe it was possible in some alternate universe that the woman of my dreams had been trying to build up the confidence to approach me, and was on the verge of doing so when I left, and so my return would move her to finally reach out. I even stayed close to the bar where confidence is often sold by the glass, so she wouldn’t have far to go to find me.
Well, she either 1) Never did build up enough courage (maybe she was broke), 2) Gave up when I left the first time and went to someone else, or 3) Didn’t actually exist. My money’s on the last one…but then again, I’m sober.
I did dance though. About 5 minutes with a real live person (who I approached), and then 3 hours by myself. It was ok when I lost myself to the music. Fun actually. Then pathetic the rest of the time, at least to me. See the whole point was to see who would walk up to me…not vice versa.
I had a little diversion, talking to this big, straight, MALE, bouncer. We commiserated with each other about how hard it was to meet women. At least, we had that in common. Then, as a further diversion, this beautiful Nubian princess came up to me and stuck her tongue down my throat.
Well, actually, she was a little bit “happy”, and bumped into me, more like. She said she was sorry, and gave me a hug to prove it. Then she kissed me half on the lips, half nothing but cheek. But she did kiss me on the lips after that. I felt teeth and either her tongue or lips…it was too quick to tell. She gave me the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen, and then walked away. Leaning on her girlfriend.
Now, if that had been one of my daydreams, you know I would have turned that kiss into something useful. But I was just too surprised by the whole thing. My first kiss in months – that didn’t come from a nephew or niece with a mouth decorated by the last meal. And I froze. Damn.
After another hour or two of shamelessly shaking “my thang” to advertise, I left for the last time. I stood aside for about 10 minutes, giving that mythical woman one last chance to come after me, before I said, “fuck it”. And walked away the way I had come. Alone.
But I did learn one thing. I could get used to women holding doors open for me with a “here you go, sweetie”. But it’s going to take some work.
I went to take a bite out of the Big Apple.
But it growled at me.
