Last night was so fun I do not even feel vaguely guilty for having gone out, when I really shouldn’t have been. But not like it would have made much of a difference anyway, I had hit saturation point with the books. And besides, I had already asked
I was at my new café haunt again yesterday, reading, but not concentrating very much. I’ve simply lost the momentum to study, along with the fear that had driven me close to insanity, not to mention, a perpetual yeast infection, for the last week. The staff kept on flirting with me, and I even asked the chef if he would like to join me at the FHM event I was going to attend later Mr. Big was really sick, and that wasn’t very nice, since I’d not seen him for a great long while and he turned up looking as easy to love as ever, unfortunately he had to leave in a couple of minutes because of a doctor’s appointment. Ugh. Who needs doctors. But he left me with two VIP passes, which I was certainly most glad to have!
Earlier on I had been standing around thinking about how lame the whole thing was. I met Will (my regular photographer), and he was carrying a huge camera bag, and completely preoccupied with taking photographs. There were a whole bunch of other photographers around, and one old guy (they call him the talent-less chee ko peh –local lingo for pervert) that I had wanted to shoot for at some point earlier in this sideline career of mine. I think he recognized me, but I tried my best to register absolutely no recognition for him whatsoever. Not that I really think he’s a chee ko peh la, but I really couldn’t be bothered with any of them. Old guys are cool, only if their white and look like George Clooney. And besides, they were obsessing over their cameras. Photographers really do live behind the lenses and out of the scope of reality. Who was the guy that postponed and execution because his video camera ran out of film?
There were no free drinks either, and I saw this inconspicuous, harmless looking man standing by the Jim Bean counter, purchasing a drink, and went up to him and asked him if he would buy me a drink. How uncanny, but he turned out to be the hubby of the publisher of FHM. And he did buy me a drink –gave me his actually- and gave me more then enough drink coupons (believe me, I got really drunk last night. I am still feeling hung over). Then I thought I saw the NZ Trade commissioner (the G-Spot’s best buddy. I’ve been trying to call G for the past week, but to no success. It’s nearly like he got wiped out from the face of the earth. After exam week, I might have to resort to drastic measures to find him *laughs*) I took a double take and looked right at him, and he looked back.
The guy who’d bought me the drink –he insists he’s a white ah beng- told me that that’s really the editor for FHM. ‘Well, holy god and all things good, he’s hot!’ (And a little to the side, ‘my loins are on fire’, as jokingly as I could manage under the circumstances). And honestly, for once in a long time, I was actually vaguely star-struck. He was young, cute and edited my ticket to fame. I had no problems talking to other big shooters, not if they were much older and thought I was sexy. I stopped seeing the rift between my social-capitalist standing (a student whose only claim to fame is a beach read blog) and theirs (Director of so and so) sometime back when I realized that people were people, and that we are all fundamentally the same. Plus, they were quite sick and tired of women looking at them and seeing money, instead of a person. I’d be lying if I said my mind never registers the fact that they are rich and successful, but I’m not a bleeder and have no formed intentions of becoming one.
So for pretty much of the night, I was wondering how to go about getting his number. The answer came in the form of 3 Jim Beans on the rocks, a little conversation where I spent the bulk of the pageant criticizing everyone except Dee and Candy, with and while the director from some luxury watch company made critical commentary on the winning chances of my two girlfriends, and more Jim Beans.
Of all hilarities, there was an interval and a guy I used to know, a good friend of a guy I spent much of my teenage years lusting after, ended up on stage.
‘How do you like to drink your Jim Bean?’ The pretty chez-o-rama emcee asked.
(Me, to the luxury watch guy) ‘Licked off a girl’s body. Duh.’
‘And how would you pick up a girl?’
(me) “Just use that old joke… the one where you go, how do you like your eggs? Sunny-side, scrambled, or fertilized.’ It took immense will-power not to embarrass myself and give the suggestion from the second level.
I wondered around for a great long while, making pointless conversation with very Italian men who still have those completely amusing and endearing accents (I have no idea why there are so many of them around me all of a sudden. I can say very truthfully prior to the last 2 weeks, I had not known a single Italian). My eyes kept on adverting to the editor though, and I was like, oh my God, I better do it now. It’s either I do or don’t, but there were people around him all the time.
Finally I found him sitting up on the balcony alone, and I was Jim Bean-ed enough to say fuck it and go up to talk to him. It was simple enough, and he wasn’t difficult to talk to. The nice, chilled out sort of dude. There was a girl sitting beside him, and I must have asked him if it were his girlfriend at some point in time. I supposed she was. Any one remember the finger flirting thing in Ally McBeal?
He gave me his card and said we should keep in touch, his number’s on it. That satisfied me enough. I went down to make more pointless conversation with the Italian men, and we went to look at the wine cellar across the atrium. They behaved like geeks in
As he (hot editor guy) was leaving, he’d looked at me and said we’d keep in touch. I sure hope so; thinking about it, if he wasn’t really interested, then there would have been no point in saying that right. Just give me a name card to shut me up, and that’s it. But it doesn’t matter, I’m way past the stage where guys play stupid games with me.
The publisher’s husband did tell me something like I could go for it/him, whatever. Girlfriend, wife, fuck buddy, doesn’t matter what he’s stuck with, the fact is, I can.
I found myself telling him, ‘What kinda of life do you lead anyway? You’re hot, you’re smart, and you run a men’s magazine.’ It’s so utterly clichéd, and I know running a magazine is a great deal of hard work, and the women and the content are all fun, but that doesn’t stop it from being very hard work.
Eventually went to CU with one of the wine geeks, and got Terry to come down and join me for a drink. One of the girls I had always thought was Uber cool told me to stop hitting on her, which left me in complete shock, because she looked really pissed, and if she’d not liked it, then couldn’t she have told me so from the start? Like, months ago?
***
And talk about coincidences, I met Mike’s roommate on my way to the bathroom. I stared at him and he stared back. It was kinda dark, and he was really cute, and whenever that happens, I start wondering if I’m just imagining it all.
‘Do I know you?’ I say, quite loudly and very surprised.
‘Yes!’
‘Holy cow, you’re Mike’s roommate aren’t you!’
Now this really is something. Toby is everything a high school girl would want in a guy in order for her to shag him. He’s cute, sexy (think the whole muscular works), and dances like a dream. (You used to dance in a gay bar? With a plastic fish around your dick, and that’s it? –I was kidding about the fish-) And I’ve finally found a cute, competent salsa partner! I CAN”T wait for the bloody exams to be over, and there’s still the matter of the dance lessons I won in a lucky draw sometime back. I’m going to take up Tango lessons, baby.
Now this is completely American Pie, but I swear to god, the first time I had seen him, I was like, aw shucks. He’s so cute, but I’m screwing Mike. I shouldn’t be a glutton, and anyway, the sex is more then good enough to keep me happy, so never mind about that.
I actually told Toby that. That I’d always wanted to shag him, and that I’d entertained the thought (note, I did not say fantasy) of having both him and Mike all over me, although I will stress at this point that I’m really much more into FFM threesomes, and the idea of having two men together, on me, kinda turns me off.
‘Hey, did you think I was hot the first time you saw me?’
‘Well, I was in too much of a state of shock the first time I saw you. You’d barged into the bathroom while I was shaving with only a towel around your waist.’
The whole situation was completely surreal. I had wanted to get his number so many times (because I just KNEW Mike was going to leave soon) and he didn’t matter much to me anyway, but couldn’t. There was no way of ever getting to see him again, short of waiting outside his place at
Sure, I did say it eventually, but the circumstances are not the same, and that makes all the difference. I, however, went home last night and made a very drunk post (100 word recount of what I did last night). The truth is, I just don’t want to shag anyone new for the time being. I have no idea why, I just don’t. (Check back a week later and see the binge that ensues after the exams. Heh.)
xoxox
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