EXPLORE
Last Monday night, I was invited to attend a Post-Pride-Party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. It was just like an episode of Gossip Girl. It was perfect.
I left my office at 5:30 on the dot, before any of the interns, and headed to the 59th/Lex subway station. In case you do not live in New York City, it’s fucking hot. Hot is actually an understatement. It’s blistering, scorching, sizzling, and any other form of the word “hot” I can find in my thesaurus. I made it down the three flights of stairs to wait for the train, the easiest part of the night, I thought.
Apparently, 5:30 is what workers consider “rush hour” and the platform was packed with men in business suits, Hispanic churro venders, and the homeless. I stood there, dripping sweat in every crevice of my body waiting for a train. “Why are all these trains heading downtown?” I asked the churro vender giving me my change.
It was then I realized I was on the wrong side of the platform, and an arriving uptown train was approaching the station. I hauled ass through the underpass, and made it just in time. Once on the train, this horrible, pungent smell was taking over. It didn’t take me long to realize the smell everyone was plugging their noses over was, in fact, me. I was drenched in sweat and my body odor was overpowering. I haven’t sweat that much since my Presidential Physical Fitness Test in the 6th grade.
When I finally escaped the prison that is the 6 train, I ran up the platform steps for a chance to breathe and cool off. But it was pouring rain. And clearly, I forgot my umbrella. So I ran to the Met just in time to meet my friends waiting in line.
Katherine and Alex were standing in line, looking beautiful as ever, and they were accompanied with a few of their co-workers. One of their co-workers is gay and knows everyone, so I like to hang around him. He is also very aware of my single-status and desperation. So I usually never leave without a phone number or a hickey. Or both.
We entered the Met and it was luxurious. I have always wanted to go to a party at the Met. I felt just like a celebrity. Or an extra from How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. We checked our bags and then checked out the hors d’oeuvres table. Nothing except bread sticks. “You mean to tell me they are throwing this huge party and the only thing to eat is bread? Where the hell are the jalapeño poppers?!” I shouted to my friends as they each took 5 pieces of bread and walked towards the open bar.
Well, who needs food when you have free drinks, right?
After a five minute line, I had 2 glasses of white wine in my hands and I was ready to mingle. When it comes to approaching guys, I either need to be extremely drunk or extremely comfortable. At this point, I was neither. I could still feel drops of sweat traveling from my lower back down the inside of my thigh, so I realized while I may never feel comfortable all night, I can sure as hell get extremely drunk. And for those that know me, 2 glasses of wine is black out. So I was right on track.
The group of ten of us ventured off to view the different exhibits we pretended to understand, saying things like, “This piece just speaks to my soul” and “Do you see those stroke lines?”
I have heard from my OkCupid newsletter that museums are a great place to pick up people, so I went to a guy standing in front of a sculpture and said, “Do you think this is from the Mesozoic era?” He looked at me, shook his head, and walked away. So, okay. Maybe the whole art thing isn’t the best opening liner. So, I approached another guy staring at a Picasso and asked if he knew where they were hiding the mozzarella sticks. He had the same reaction. I decided to just give up and find my friends.
I went over to Laura, but she was wearing heels and made me look insanely short. So then I ventured over to Alex, but she was talking to a British guy who, ever so casually, asked me to go back to his apartment and have “a romp.” After expressing my disinterest, I wandered over to Rebecca who was entertaining a very cute young bachelor. He was handsome, successful, funny, and loved the Outback Steakhouse.
I stood with him and Rebecca for about thirty minutes just shooting the shit and falling in love until the event started to close and we exchanged our goodbyes. “Ask me out!” the dapper-dressed person inside my head shouted. “What are you waiting for? I’m about to leave!”
He then pulled out his phone. “This is it,” I thought. I got ready to hand over my digits until he asked Rebecca for her number.
Of course I would talk to the only straight guy at the Post Pride Party.
I took out my bag claim ticket and waited in line to retrieve my man purse, go to Taco Bell, and then fall asleep by 9pm. But just as I was getting excited about my plan, Rebecca and Kathryn flagged me down with two handsome fellas they had just met. “James, these are our new friends, David and Diego. They want to go to dinner. Come!”
Clearly, having dinner with them beats a chalupa combo meal. We left the Met and found a cab that would allow 5 people in it (which is not easy) and headed downtown to eat. Just as I asked what David did for a living, he started putting his hands down my pants and kissing my neck. Having this being the most sex I have had since Bush was in office, I gladly welcomed the foreplay.
After an awkward ten minute cab ride, we reached Chelsea to go to dinner. We ended up going to his favorite restaurant in the city – a place where he knew the entire staff and half the people dining there. The five of us sat at a table, but I was already seeing that he was a little too drunk and was starting to get on my nerves, so I let Kathryn sit by him while I sat next to his friend, Diego.
It turns out that although Diego is a banker at Morgan Stanley, he is an aspiring writer and is currently enrolled in a creative fiction class, so we had much to talk about. The meal came and we ate, and the company and conversation flowed, until Dave (that’s the guy who was groping me in the cab) pulled out his cell phone and said, “Ya’ll want to see my penis?”
Kathryn, Rebecca and I all looked at each other, put our forks down, and said in unison, “Hell yeah.”
He revealed his iPhone to the three of us and showed us his extremely well endowed member. I quickly kicked Kathryn in the leg and made her switch seats with me. I now decided he was who I wanted to go home with. Lo siento, Diego.
We played handsy underneath the table, touching, rubbing, and at one point, grabbing each other. It was starting to feel good, but then I remembered we were at a public restaurant and I think we started to make everyone at the table uncomfortable (sorry!)
After the check was paid, we all left and headed out into the rainy weather. We then had that awkward conversation as we awaited cabs to take us all to our respective homes, and I stood by David waiting for an invite to his apartment located 5 blocks away.
Rebecca was the first one to leave, and I was hoping Diego would share a cab with her so David and I could at least be alone and he would then shrug his shoulders and just take me home out of boredom. And I also didn’t want Diego to see me leave with David because, well, I may want to go home with him in the future.
But no such luck.
Once Rebecca’s cab pulled away, David pulled me into a hug and said all the pleasantries you say to someone you met drunkenly at the Met. “Nice to meet you”…”so much fun”…”hope we see each other soon”.
I gave Kathryn a disappointed look saying, “Okay, fine. I’ll just go home with Diego instead.”
Now it was turn for Kathryn to say her good-byes, so I stood next to Diego, my second choice. But then he said he was just going to stay at David’s house. “A three-way?” that inner voice imagined. Kathryn grabbed a cab and started to get in, while I lingered on the street a second too long. When I finally realized that my night of fun had ended eight minutes ago, I hopped in the cab and asked if I could just spend the night at Kathryn’s.
The next morning, we both awoke, tired and hung-over and definitely not ready for the day of work that awaited us. While Kathryn was straightening her hair and I was trying to put in my left contact, her cell phone beeped. She ran over to see who the message was from. It was from David.
“How the hell does he have your phone number?” I screamed.
“I, uh, gave it to him. Duh.”
“Oh. So, what. Are you guys like, best friends now?!” The jealous thirteen year old was starting to arise in me, and I was not going to let this go. How the hell did I have two prospects at 9pm and Kathryn ended up getting David’s phone number.
“He just said that he had fun last night!”
“Did he mention my name? Did he say anything about me?”
“No” she replied.
“I cannot believe you got his phone number and all I got was a brief dick-rub in the cab.
She looked at me sympathetically, grabbed her work bag and started to walk out of her apartment. She then turned to look at me and said, “I also got Diegos.”
And all I got was a stiff neck from sleeping on her sofa bed.