This past Friday, I painted my eyes with some glitter and dark mascara and changed into a pair of high-heeled booties, my snug and sexy jeans, and a black halter-top for an evening of dancing with my girlfriends. After some drinks at my friend’s apartment on the Upper East Side, we hailed a cab heading downtown and hopped from one place to another, leaving one club because a bachelorette party exploded on the dance floor, left another because we just didn’t like the scene, and finally ended up at Fat Baby, a funky little maze with decent music and some cuties. There may have been at least one other place, but as I said, we were pregaming and some of the events are a bit foggy. Some foreigners snuggled in next to us at a table we snagged, took pictures of and with us, and then we got up to dance.
That evening I met an Albanian named Bear. I like to protect the innocent and usually change names in my blog but this one really was too good not to use. He was adorable, a good dancer, and very charming. But when that Barbra Streisand song came on, I went to dance with my girls and he left to go dance with some other chick.
A few moments later, Roberto sauntered over and leaned into my ear. “I think you’re really cute and would like to dance with you.” I’ve never been formally approached to dance and knew immediately he was not from New York (I was right; he had moved here from Boston). After a few minutes of pleasantries, he wanted to try out for the tonsil hockey team. He took my number and said he would call me as he walked out of the bar.
Bear returned and offered to buy me a drink. He apologized for leaving me and we made small talk on the couch though he also seemed much more interested in jamming his tongue down the back of my throat.
A couple cocktails and apparently I’m Bret Michaels.
Roberto and Bear both contacted me after that evening, but after a few texts back and forth, I realized Bear was more interested in sexting and so I let that go. But Roberto? Called when he said he would, has offered to take me out, and he just seems like a darling. He’s also 27, a good five years younger than I am, but I’m not going to hold that against him. Maybe Hutch is on to something. A good man is hard to find in this city and I’ll try not to let his age get in the way if we do end up going out on that date.