Admittedly, I’m not in the best frame of mind to meet a guy. He’s introduced to me by Peter, a friend who claims to never go out. In New York that seems going to fewer than nine bars a night, because people are always clapping him on the back and saying things like, “Didn’t last night go off?” or “You’ll be at Sway tomorrow night, right?” Upon first glance, I’m not particularly impressed with Magazine Guy–or, more accurately, I’m not impressed with how not impressed he seems to be with me. He’s dark-haired and tall and appropriately chiseled. However, he is far more interested in chatting with an essentially incoherent Page Six reporter than he is in charming writers from the left coast. I inform Peter that I find Magazine Guy cheesy and too into himself.
The next night after dinner I go to meet Peter, who happens to be having drinks with Mr. Magazine and some other guys. From the get-go, Magazine Guy’s attitude has undergone a 180. Before I even sit down in the chair he’s suddenly made available by his side, he’s tossing out those you-know-you-look-exactly-like compliments. I’m sensing that getting a guy’s attention in New York can be difficult but once you have it, it’s an easy thing to hold.
Later, after M.G. and I have succeeded in holding each other’s attention for a good hour, he starts exploiting his job mercilessly by telling me about an article that he’s editing on cunnilingus. He says he would tell me what the article espouses but it’s actually something far easier to show than it is to tell. I gulp. Later, when he asks me if I want to share a cab–explaining that his West Village apartment is on my way back to Brooklyn Heights–I say yes.
Now, if we were in L.A., this would mean we’d leave together and then I–being the chick–would decide, depending on a zillion tiny occurrences and whims, whether we’re embarking on a random night of sin or just a kiss and number exchange. I figure it’s the same thing in New York, only with a chauffeur. Once ensconced in the cab, he starts giving me a back rub—a really good back rub—that evolves into kissing. As the cab pulls up outside his apartment, he starts saying things. They’re a jumble of last-minute, nonsensical utterances meant to persuade me to get out here rather than continue on to Brooklyn, something about how he has a king-size bed and a queen-size one and I could sleep in either. I keep kissing him. I’m somewhat self-conscious and aware of the cabbie a few feet away. De Niro’s Taxi Driver line about how he always had to wash off the seats at the end of the night twists its way through my mind. Ultimately, I say no. I tell MG that he could literally be Norman Bates in Psycho and I wouldn’t know it. He nods and hands me his business card.