Scratch the Surface

Just another night out in Manhattan.

January fifth, Prima Downhill asked me to join her at First Thursdays, the drink-em-up for the Vermont ski crowd (not to be confused with Frenchtuesdays), this time held at Bogart's, an after-work booze joint on 39th and Park Avenue South. I rallied. And I don't ski.

Most of the flu symptoms subsided, and I knew that several of my girls, and a couple of heroes would be there. I opted to walk, since I hadn't had the stamina to hit the gym in a couple of weeks. Yes, that damned bug was nasty and pernicious.

Bogart's is located on a glass-enclosed corner, tough to miss, smokers milling outside the main door, the requisite hulk of a bouncer keeping a weather-eye. I took a deep breath, exhaled through the cigarette smoke, and pushed through the glass door. Here I go again, I thought.

The place was jammed, patrons and waitstaff alike punching hockey elbows through the throng. Surfer Girl and Liz Taylor, Jr. stood on one side of the center, circular bar, in their own nook. I bee-lined. Idle chit-chat, checked the available talent. Nothing spectacular.

The Lieutenant Commander swooped in, right away making comfortable, easy, and familiar patter. Then, at some point, after some friends left while others hovered, a tall, attractive, age-appropriate, slightly-silvered, animated fellow and I started to chat. Okay, flirt.

A proverb I found once in a Chinese fortune cookie read, "Scratch the surface of a man, and you will find a book."

We got into it, so much so that some of the core-corps tried to interject, only to given the raised index finger: "Wait. Wait one minute (or ten, or more)."

Here is an outline of his narrative, not Roman, more modified-Arabic:

1. He works for Metropolitan Transit Authority. Uh-oh. Not a popular bunch after the local Transit Workers Union strike last month.

2. He claimed he was trained as a rocket scientist. Not exactly, I discovered. He has a masters in aerospace engineering. I modified Senator Lloyd Bentsen's line when he debated Dan Quayle, "I know rocket scientists, sir. And you are no rocket scientist." In truth, I do know rocket scientists: astrophysicists, theoretical, and experimental physicists. But that's another story for another time.

3. He's working on a fledgling side career as a stand-up comic. He was handing out fliers for his next gig.

4. He skis Vermont, needed a ride, and doesn't drive standard. No stick.

5. He went to Monsignor Farrel High School in Staten Island. Aha! I started secondary in Staten Island at Saint John Villa High School Academy for Girls. That's the full name. "So you were a St. John's girl," he laughed. The venerable Arch Dioceses of New York, where the word Co-op means something completely different from real-estate. Insider information, the connect.

6. Last year, he dated a bunch of women at the same time. Described deep sex with more than one woman within a twenty-four period. Admitted that he hurt at least one of them, and ended the central relationship a month or so ago (cf. The Depilitator). Now, he's trying to work it out, work out the difference between passionate love-making, and how to be in a one-on-one loving relationship. Uh-oh.

Evidently, he hove to his line, his penitent position. After a cursory ending to his story, he begged off, he had early meetings Friday. Which was fine. I was a willing audience, I needed nothing more. And I did enjoy the various compliments he paid me.

"You have to know that you are very attractive," he said, then added, "I wanted to meet you at a First Thursday last summer (Bastille Day?), but I had my girlfriend then (had I met him before?)"

A wee validation. A period at the end of a run-on sentence. A small moment. And two uh-oh's: pay attention to those inner uh-oh's.

Somehow, Ski-Bump-Babe, the Lieutenant Commander, two others, and I (a surprise hit of pot on the way) wound up at Rodeo Bar (goodsweetjesus, I hadn't been there in forever) listening to a kick-ass band, eating barbecue ribs at midnight.

When I got home around one in the morning, Il Romano called, responding to a voice message I left him, and since he was close to my building, after a gig, he stopped over for a little while. He almost got my clothes off a second time, before I begged off (my turn, not ready, not quite yet, working my way around to it, maybe). As I kissed him goodbye, I opened my eyes and saw that his were closed, and that his eyelashes were very long against the tops of his cheeks. I saw him out, "Amore, amore."

More. Maybe. Maybe more.

Comments

[PYT]

I thought you were leaving him alone? I guess you need to think about what you really want, and as long as you protect your heart, unless you are not afraid to be hurt. Well, I guess in time it will work itself out- or when you get bored enough with the whole situation.

-PYT

[La Latina]

Nothing like kissing with your eyes closed!!