Confessions.of.a.NYC.Lezie

A couple of months ago – soon after I broke up with The Gym Addict, I had a one night stand with a girl I’ll call Annoying. It happened back in January on a cold winter evening in Midtown, when I met some friends for dinner and drinks and she was part of that group.

When you look at her, she is absolutely stunning. She has this really really strong Italian Accent, about my height and beautiful with long dark hair and eyes the color of a gorgeous summer sky and a smile that can melt you instantly.

But, she’s so fucking annoying. Sort of like a bird that wouldn’t shut up and it just kept chirping and chirping and all you wanted to do was to shut it. Well, that was her. That night while heading uptown to her place, I found myself wondering what on earth I was doing. Something about her mannerisms and what she talked about and how she actually spoke just grated on my nerves. Alas, I had just broken up with The Gym Addict and was kind of in my I’m free again period. I was just having fun.

I think I am pretty much a really good person to get along with. I also like different kinds of people, that’s why I have a plethora of friends. I have my sports friends, my drinking buddies, and college folks, work peeps and people I truly enjoy talking to about anything. The big plus too is that I enjoy having gorgeous ladies around me. But this girl? Just irritating in every way possible. It's unfortunate, really.

This past Monday evening, after spending hours at the office, and out of the blue, Annoying called me. I looked at my phone and just wondered what she wanted – sex, alcohol, my office…

She wanted to grab a drink at my favorite bar on 8th avenue.

It wasn’t until I went to meet her in the lobby that it all rushed back to me that I hated this woman’s company. It was already 7pm on a Monday night. And I had to go to work the next morning. Not all of us are fortunate enough to be freelancers.

So I looked at her and she knew that I changed my mind. But she had those piercing blue eyes that got me. They got me good. They got me to sit at a bar and eating calamari and drinking mojitos. The clock was ticking, and I was getting more annoyed at her. She wanted to discuss our one night stand from last year in excruciating detail. And then she started to tell me about other encounters that she’s had, in an equally graphic way. And then I felt a hand on my knee. And then she was asking me if I wanted to come back to her place.

I was polite. I said no. Paid for the bill and called her a cab. And I could see that she was kind of disappointed. She obviously wanted to have sex with somebody.

But it wasn’t going to be me.

PS: Tomorrow's post should be super exciting - tonight is my company's website re-launch party. and guess who will be attending?? The Model.

Stay Tunned.

Have you heard of Tavern on the Green? How about their famous Halloween parties? Well that’s where I was. Halloween is a holiday that I love very much and since I know a lot of PR people/club promoters, I know that Halloween is a great excuse for them to financially ass rape the NY population with an extra thrust by charging $50 entrance fees, justified by the concept of a “Halloween Party”.

And clubs aren’t the only ones cleverly commercializing on Halloween’s easily exploitive nature. Costume shops somehow convince normally savvy Manhattanites to shell out a hundred bucks for a disintegrating cliché costume in a plastic bag that cost $2.50 to produce in China or India.

I’m being the textbook definition of a party pooper, I know. And I apologize. Anyone who follows this blog knows hating on an excuse to party isn’t my nature. But I spent a wretched twenty minutes competing with sluts, Ghost Busters, and a lot of slutty outfits (ref, genie, cop, wonderwoman) for a cab home Saturday evening on Seventh Avenue after I prematurely aborted my evening plans. The city was that overcrowded. I wasn’t drunk, and an especially disorganized trip to a stupid opening night at a restaurant led to a hit and run (drunk driver speeding and went in my dad’s new 2008 BMW) on Friday night had cut into my quality weekend costume planning time, which I wasn’t looking forward to anyway. Sober in a sweater and jeans isn’t really the best way to crash a Halloween party, especially when you’re still upset about the asshole who crashed into your car.

I enjoyed an especially leisurely dinner with The Writer Saturday night, so we didn’t even get to Tavern on the Green until around midnight. It was clear from twenty yards away that entering the establishment was a lost cause. Lines branched off in two directions outside the entrance, both so long and winding that they were difficult to follow even while squinting. Mobs larger than anything I’ve seen on 27th street launched themselves through the middle.Who were all these people?

Another disturbing thing about Holidays…those who consistently stay home on a Saturday night come out for the ‘special occasion’ of Halloween. The city becomes disproportionately packed! The entire party-going system is clogged with outsiders. Which is fine. I have nothing against non-religious-party-goers, although I wish they’d try harder to not get so ripped off.In order to even out the New York going-out equilibrium, I feel the regulars like me need to stay in. That’s why I was home by 3 a.m. The Writer and I took one look at the throngs outside Tavern, calculated that everyone lucky enough to negotiate a successful entrance would be coughing up $40-ish for the privilege of buying drinks inside, silently applauded Tavern’s money-making savvy, and high-tailed it out of there.

A girlfriend of ours who’d wisely arrived at ten p.m. and had a table in the VIP section (Tavern on the Green has a VIP section? Apparently on Halloween they do…) confirmed that the party was fabulously fun. So I’m not bad-mouthing their bash. I like Tavern if only for the sparkly Christmas lights wrapped around all the trees. Cheers to them for monopolizing on Halloween in the most lucrative scheme I’ve seen yet.

The good news is that if I have the willpower, I can redeem myself Wednesday night – the official day of Old Hallows Eve. Word on the street is that Cipriani’s 42nd street is throwing some sort of Wednesday night Halloween ‘ball’ in collaboration with Roberto Cavalli vodka, Pink’s hosting a ‘disco inferno,’ and the Italians will be rocking their own mini party at I Tre Merli in SoHo. See yout there?

I saw a woman on the street this morning with a sign on her t-shirt (" i'm up here" - with an arrow going up). I'm sorry, but isn't the purpose of having letters and words on your t-shirt for people to read them and think you are all ironical and shit?

So there I am like a jackass on the street trying to read her tits, which she clearly doesn't want me to read cause you know, her eyes are up there. She REALLY wanted to get the point across that she should be loved for her "mind", that she went ahead and bought the t-shirt about 2 sizes too small. Just large enough that it wouldn't fit, but small enough that I can see the lace from her bra (shutup, I read slowly) and her gettinglargerbytheminute muffin tops.

Honestly? If you want people NOT to stare at your tits lady, wear the words on a hat, not on your knockers.

Oh sweet Lord. The Wife was unbearably adorable. She actually made fun of me for not drinking enough. Meanwhile, my alleged friend sat there, mostly immobile, picking at his bok choy throughout lunch.

Midway through the meal, when The Wife went to the bathroom, I announced “I really like her.” The Writer and the husband vigorously nodded in agreement while The Writer
sort of laughed at the table. This is when I realized I was angry at him. My alleged friend had been hiding from me for two years and the lunch was making it very difficult to pretend everything had been The Wife’s fault. Maybe insecure, controlling wives drink martinis and tell you about the time they passed out in front of their mother-in-law’s house but it seemed unlikely. So I leaned over to my alleged friend and whispered in my best I-really-mean-it voice, “I like her more than you.” Then I avoided him for the rest of the day which was difficult, since I was sitting next to him, but somehow possible.

Hopefully I hurt his feelings but I am guessing he thought I was joking.

The Writer and I hung out this weekend and we went to Bungalo 8. For those who are clueless – it is where the young celebs hang out when they are in NYC. We had to prove it wasn’t too cool for us.

“One drink and then we go,” I told The Writer as we crossed the street. “I don’t want to hang out here all night, all the men look like they wax their eyebrows.”

“So…we only have one mission – to find L. Lohan,” she said. And with a quick smirk I agreed and enforced the one drink policy.

“One drink,” she agreed, adjusting her cleavage for the eighth time. She had run into the age-old dilemma while getting ready: How much boob is too much boob? Trying to combine the best of both worlds, she was wearing an extremely low cut dress with a small tank top underneath. While I, wore a cute white summer lace baby doll dress.

We got into the club with an ease that can only be described as anticlimactic and two drinks later (like we ever actually have one drink) our egos were appeased. We were ready to meet up with our friends at a less pretentious club.

Making the requisite stop at the bathroom, we found it to be one of those single stall types and went in together. (The Writer and I are really good friends ;) and if you tell me you’ve never peed with any of your friends then I think you’re either lying or you are my mother.)

We were all set to leave, when we discovered we literally could not.She pulled, pushed and jiggled the handle but the door remained closed. She even smacked the wood a few times in an attempt to open the door through brute force, but it remained firm as I stood in the corner, helping no one by giggling uncontrollably.

“NYC.Lezie, what are we going to do?” she demanded.

Suddenly there were agitated voices outside the bathroom. I looked at her.“I can’t handle this right now,” I announced, turning to the mirror. “I’m going to put on Mascara.”

“I’m going to take off this tank top,” she said, either following my lead of ignoring the problem at hand or thinking that more of her cleavage could solve the situation as it has solved so many situations before.It was only when her tank top was half-off that the door flew open, revealing a concerned looking busboy and a small crowd of anxious, would-be bathroom goers.She quickly pulled up her straps.

“Uhhh…we heard the door move, we thought you might have needed...help?” The busboy looked embarrassed to have caught us in a passionate, door shaking, girl-on-girl bathroom tryst.

The Writer looked like she might try to explain, an event that could only make things worse (“No, see I was trying to get out, but couldn’t, and then I took off my shirt! Get it?”) so I gave her a shove, brightly said “Thanks!” and darted past the smirking on-lookers.

And then, with people still looking after us curiously, a sudden gust of air blew her skirt up. She screamed, clutched her ass and ran outside while I strolled, faux-casually, after her.

“So now we can never go back,” I explained to my Hetero friends.

They smiled. “Why not? I bet they’d love to have you back.”

Growing up, I always held the ideal of the 'NY woman' as my aspiration -- fashionable, feminine yet assertive, tough, and always extrodinarily put together. I acheived my goal when I was 18, during my first year of my women's college experience. I was always well dressed, 15 lbs thinner, make-up on perfectly, the perfect first date who laughed at the the dumbest jokes and struck the balence of making a woman feel like a million dollars yet making her second guess whether you were completely into her. The year I began my first year of college, I was unstoppable when I went out. I would walk into a straight bar and I would end up pushed against the wall being ravaged by some hot sexually confused woman.

Now let's examine where my I am 6 years later. 15 lbs heavier, forgotten how to put on make-up, there is something always eskew with my outfits (yesterday I ran out of clean clothes and had to febreeze myself and this morning I got deoderant all over my black summer dress that did not quite fit perfectly), and I lost my nasty streak -- the streak that made women find me so insanely attractive.

See, my undergrad was co-ed, but I considered it more of a women’s college due to the lack of men and the absurd amount of lezies and bi curious girls from no name towns. So, with that said, my “women’s college” education made women more assertive, allowed us to pursue our intellectual potential with minimal male classroom domination and all in all, a women's college education makes us better humanbeings. If I am such a better humanbeing, why am I pining away for the days when I was 18? The days I would laugh in a girl’s face if she didnt kiss well, buy me my drink on time, or wasn't hot enough for me. Granted, I am a nicer human being, I no longer laugh in girl’s faces, give everyone a chance (because there may be a diamond in the rough), and try to keep in mind that even the less fornuate looking women are humanbeings with a story to tell.

Fuck my education, college gave me a conscience.

Living in sweatpants for 4 years will mess with a girls sense of fashion and her self esteem. Granted during those 4 years I worked on my "self:" I can debate the validity of Nietzsche, hold intellect in the highest regard, and value life experience rather than the mall experience. I learned to value myself as an intellectual as opposed to a cute well put together NYC Lezie. Hence why I have been sorta single ever since. Living in those sweatpants taught me that sometimes fabulous people dont always look so fabuous.

For the past two years, having become a bonafide NYer, I have tried so hard to become the woman I once was..the woman who always had her hair- did, always had a quick joke, an a cigg dangling out of her mouth ( not too sexy I suppose). The woman who would never get horribly drunk, who sipped her vodka as opposed to chugging, and cured hangovers with water and fruit as opposed to scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast. I tried hard within this past year to become the woman I was at 18 but since I work in publishing, and there are no eliglble lezies who I work with, I went back to old habits – the partying, the “I don’t really give a fuck look” You may have chugged coors light back in the day, my friends and I chugged shots of absolut vodka while playing power hour.

Now that I have everything in place that would force me to become the woman I have always wanted to (appearance and alcohol consumption wise, everything else I am really happy with myself), I think I forgot! This morning I got my deoderant all over my black summer dress. Instead of making a big deal, scrubbing it out, I shrugged my shoulders and rationalized that we are all human, as I pulled my hair back into a messy bun.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

I have spent the last 5.5 years romanticizing the messy intllectual, the quiet one with a nose in her book, who always looks slightly astray. I am 24 going on 25... I am working with cute straight ladies with probably even cuter friends. Oh 18 yr old me...where are you?

Today is absolutely gorgeous in NYC. It’s a little chilly but perfect for a light jacket or a sweater. What I don’t understand is the outfit ladies chose to wear in this kind of weather. I swear once it hits 55 degrees, you can bet on finding little broads in skimpy little minis and what I call lingerie tops prancing around in the city– I kid you not. They take every opportunity to dress like whores when it isn’t even close to being summer but to them it feels like a million degrees.

On the other hand, I went to my dentist during my lunch break. Usually I cab it –I’m on 57th on the west side and he is on 63rd on the East side. Since today is fab, I decided to walk along 5th Avenue, and up Park Avenue. The ladies on that side of the island are gorgeous, slim, Louis and Prada in tote, they walk as though they owned the city. My eyes widen as much as they could but I felt a little out of place. Although I did look great in my leopared print pumps with my skinny jeans, which by the way, I had the hardest time getting into (It might be my period coming) sunglasses a la Jackie O and a killer Burb coat. Still, I had a hard time fitting in.

I weaved through the mob of tourist taking pictures of the window display of Chanel (really who does that?) and landed right in front of a very good looking, tall business/model guy named Charles – somehow I managed to grab his name/voluntarily (I swear) gave me his number while he lit his cigg with MY lighter. He is the biggest fag I’ve ever seen and I guess my lesbionic scent overwhelmed the NYC brisk air and yes, we are having drinks next week.

So I left Charles behind and headed towards 63rd. While walking abruptly and dangling a parliament on the left side of my lip, because I was already 3 minutes late, I overheard this conversation.

Girl 1: I can’t believe last night, you dirty little whore!
Girl 2: He had the most amazing looking schlong. And for a Jew, he was pretty well trimmed in that area.
Girl 1: you mean, they don’t shave?
Girl 2: not everyone is like your Madison boy toy.
Girl 1: Gross. Mental, mental picture. Ewww I just pictured it!

For a second, I thought I was going to vomit but then again, I was on Park Avenue, and Ladies who lunch, dine, live on Park don’t vomit – unless they are in the privacy of their own bathroom. It isn’t lady like I tell ya.