It's the holiday season. The private parties, soirees, and events stack our schedules like planes over La Guardia.
I got in about two in the morning one night last weekend, after cocktails chez moi, after dinner at Sapa, then a party off Fifth Avenue in the twenties, and a stop at Speak on 23rd. The last of those was triggered by a text message from an attractive, very tall fellow (a doppelganger for Easy E, Catnip for me), who was co-hosting a birthday gathering. I had met him at a holiday party in Soho the previous week. A quick drive-by, a quick flirt, nothing more - for now.
Back home, I wasn't tipsy at all, and started my bedtime ministrations. A quick kitty massage, then makeup removal. I was just about to moisturize when the phone rang. I wasn't wearing my glasses, and couldn't make out the name or number on the incoming screen. So I flipped the phone open and said-asked, "Hello?"
It was The Detective. Surprise, sardonic surprise. I had removed his number from the phonebook weeks ago. Now, if he thought he was in for a booty call or phone sex, forget it. I wasn't about to deliver either. I gave him the greatest gift on a date we had a couple of months ago, and after he got off, he up and left. With zero reciprocation.
When I told GV Wonder, he said, "If that muthafucka ever shows up at your door again, he better be wearing scuba gear."
The Detective started in, telling me about some recent take-down in the Bronx, "Didn't you read about it?"
"No, I didn't," I told him. Later, when I ran a search on The New York Times, I came up with nada. Hyperbole, I'm thinking, if not an outright lie.
"I've been so busy (blah, blah, blah)," he continued. "Are you in bed?"
"You know?" I ventured. "You could have been the perfect once-in-a-while-guy. If you could have figured it out."
Then I explained my dissatisfaction with that one evening we had together, he said, "Well, you know, you could shave down there."
"Under no circumstances," the heat rising in my face, "will I shave to look like a prepubescent girl. It's sick and demented, and it smacks of pedophilia. I'm an adult, and I keep clean and neat, but (with a nod to The L Word), I have bush confidence."
He grew abrupt, "You talk too much, You don't listen."
Right. I refused to engage further, he made some weird gurgling noise, and then the phone went dead. Good riddance.
I looked at it for one puzzled moment. Then I walked back to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and moisturized.
I slept peacefully that night, taking comfort in the knowledge that New York's Finest were keeping the city safe, out in the cold.
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