I met this guy at another showroom party, one that for some reason had hooked a few engineers and skewed the average amount of men at one of those types of parties. Straight men at that! To make matters even more interesting, the furniture showroom invited a DJ to man the mac and play some tunes to get people to dance. We all love to dance.
In fact, those engineers turned out to be 1 in 3 single and not dancers. However, the DJ was into me. He was bad news, Andres was there to meet him and determined this. But I agreed to go out on a date with him and we had some major chemistry, even if it bothered him that I was 6 years younger.
He was from DC originally, and had a gig there for a long weekend. I had a feeling I would never see him again after that, mainly because although we were having a great time, riding bikes around and going to beginning-of-summer bbq's... something felt like my time was up.
"I'm back!" he exclaimed. I was running out to get some beers around the corner from Brynne's and had missed his call on the bike ride to her apartment. He'd texted me once or twice, both seeming like mass-texts to everyone back in NY, and only the first one did I respond to.
"I can't wait for those elbows," he said. Yes, my incredible massage trick was to dig my pointy, bony elbows into the back and shoulders of anyone. My hands weren't nearly strong enough, but those elbows... So he did want to see me again.
"And the sex, wow! Let's get together," he said. "Tomorrow? I'll get us on the list to a show at Union Pool. In the back room."
"I thought you didn't like it when I bit you," I said. He had been covering my mouth, evidently I was being too loud.
Union Pool, the back room. I hadn't been there as much as ever before since I met him and his apartment was within walking distance. I can't say it was my favorite place to go, way too hipster for me. But I agreed, and when I got back to Brynne's it was shocking to have such news.
"He's bad news!" was all Andres could say.
I showed up at the DJ's place after work on Friday, with an extra bag full of random stuff, not necessarily to stay over at his place but more because I'm a packrat and needed some stuff for the weekend that had been stashed at the office. Naturally, the party doesn't start until at least 9 or 10, so we hang out for awhile, drink a little, smoke a little. Catch up on his crazy weekend.
We go to the bar, meet up with some of his friends, get wristbands into the back room. We get some tacos from the taco truck in the courtyard. The night is turning into a pretty typical night for us, where we drink too much and he gets outrageous with his friends and I just hang around looking pretty.
However, at Union Pool's back room, there is no shortage of guys, and everyone's dancing and I love to dance. Before I know it, one of his (female) "best friends" showed up, all distraught and slightly drunk because she'd just broken up with her boyfriend of so so many years. At this point, it's pretty clear that I'm on my own, even if I have been seeing this guy for 2 months.
So I dance with other guys. There's one in particular who's rather aggressive. He's strong and it's difficult to dance with him because I have to just let go and be tossed around. Until I realize that I'm hurting, that my finger feels funny. I stop, escape him to find the DJ and his friend. I look at my hand, make a fist. The ring finger of my right hand unnaturally crosses over my middle finger, over my pointer. It's not normal. It's got to be broken.
"Stop doing that," said the DJ. I passed out. Twice. I'm not ok, I can tell that this is going to be a problem. My finger is obviously broken, and although it isn't hurting too much and there's no blood or anything, I have to get out of here. I'm drunk, but I leave the bar and go around the corner to the first bodega I find, the one on Metropolitan right outside of the train station. It's raining now.
"Do you have any medical tape?" I ask. There is a guy in the store, fascinated by me. I seem pretty ok except for when I show him my fist, with my finger in the wrong place. He attempts to "set it" and twist it back into place. Nothing's working. I had tried that.
"How about some advil?" I said, assuming that if anything, the swelling would start soon, and pain. The bodega guy gave me a couple packets, and a length of clear tape. You know, the tape they use at the end of wrapping up a sandwich. This stranger tapes my finger to my other finger.
I left the bodega (after getting that guy's card) and head back to the bar. The bar is closing, and they won't let me in. The DJ is not answering his phone. I can only imagine that he's gone back to his apartment. Presumably with his friend, to hook up? I wouldn't put it past him. I walk under the BQE to his apartment and buzz and buzz until he responds via text.
"You can get whatever you left tomorrow."
I buzz and buzz until he finally lets me in. I go upstairs, they are both trashed, I grab my things, exchange a few choice words and leave.
I hail a cab and get home.
"You think your night was bad? My finger's broken," I texted a good friend who I'd been text-commiserating with all evening. He'd been on a bad date. He called me the next morning and showed up in his roommie's car to take me to the ER at Methodist in Park Slope. We were laughing the whole time, even if at first his face went white when he saw the swollen finger, it's dislocation, and the greenish bruise to my palm and wrist.
X-rays proved that it was a complex fracture with rotational complication. Or something. Basically, someone had taken my finger and twisted, then when it broke they'd kept twisting. Then the tendons in my finger wouldn't let it go back. I'd be having 3 pins surgically inserted to put it back on Thursday. Happy mother's day weekend!
Showing posts with label out of control. Show all posts
Showing posts with label out of control. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
color invasion, an industry party
Voicemail:
“Izzy, it’s S___. I just kissed you and I love you. We should get married tomorrow. You let me know. I’ll meet you at town hall. We’ll get married. You know. We’ll do well. You know. I know you left in a limo but we’ll do well because I just love the way you kiss. Either way we’re gonna see each other again. Give me a call. Or I’ll call you. I love you. You’re the best.”Long acclaimed as the International Interior Design Association’s wildest and most exciting bash of the year, Color Invasion, this year was hosted by Splashlight Studios. The event gathers the people in sales for furniture, carpet, lighting, fabric and all other types of finishes and furnishings with interior designers and architects. The money raised for this event goes to the IIDA which uses it for any number of scholarships and other great foundations and events. Granted, these people all work together regularly, meet together, and have smaller parties in showrooms.
So one night a year, everyone lets down their hair, so to speak and gets together for a wild night of color-themed drinks and hors d’oeuvres. This year’s theme was FLASH and this was translated into… whips and flashing spiked bracelets on all the tables and “photoshoots” set up with dinosaur and sheep blow-up dolls (yes, THOSE kind of blow up dolls) and big white workout balls.
I had gotten there late, late enough to be reprimanded by one of my favorite coworkers, but she had been drinking and this convinced her that this was a worse offense than not finishing my drawings or getting the fabric samples when she needed them…
To get to the bar was difficult. With such a gathering of the forces, in addition to ongoing economical situation, there was a major stench of gossip in the air and it was impossible to get more than a few steps at a time before stopping to chat, or rather, shout about so-and-so’s new job or haircut or unemployment or bankruptcy or this evening’s get-up. Or my favorite, all the gay reps that I work with trying to set me up with their straight friends. Keep in mind that this is the FUN event for the IIDA so everyone’s decked out in their wildest get-noticed outfit. This will be talked about for months to come and at next year’s event. (“Did you see Selina’s red sequined pantsuit?”) Last year I wore a green wig.
But the guy that I "connected with" I met all on my own. It was already pretty late in the night. I had gotten a ticket for Andres earlier that day, most likely someone had had to give up theirs due to a deadline, and Trina had been attending since she was an intern. She would direct us to the afterparty when it was time. The time was quickly approaching, as the crowd was thinning, and Trina was already disappointed that the only blow-up toys left to take home were sheep; she had wanted a dragon. She and Andres squeezed one between their bodies, trying to deflate it.
So one night a year, everyone lets down their hair, so to speak and gets together for a wild night of color-themed drinks and hors d’oeuvres. This year’s theme was FLASH and this was translated into… whips and flashing spiked bracelets on all the tables and “photoshoots” set up with dinosaur and sheep blow-up dolls (yes, THOSE kind of blow up dolls) and big white workout balls.
I had gotten there late, late enough to be reprimanded by one of my favorite coworkers, but she had been drinking and this convinced her that this was a worse offense than not finishing my drawings or getting the fabric samples when she needed them…
To get to the bar was difficult. With such a gathering of the forces, in addition to ongoing economical situation, there was a major stench of gossip in the air and it was impossible to get more than a few steps at a time before stopping to chat, or rather, shout about so-and-so’s new job or haircut or unemployment or bankruptcy or this evening’s get-up. Or my favorite, all the gay reps that I work with trying to set me up with their straight friends. Keep in mind that this is the FUN event for the IIDA so everyone’s decked out in their wildest get-noticed outfit. This will be talked about for months to come and at next year’s event. (“Did you see Selina’s red sequined pantsuit?”) Last year I wore a green wig.
But the guy that I "connected with" I met all on my own. It was already pretty late in the night. I had gotten a ticket for Andres earlier that day, most likely someone had had to give up theirs due to a deadline, and Trina had been attending since she was an intern. She would direct us to the afterparty when it was time. The time was quickly approaching, as the crowd was thinning, and Trina was already disappointed that the only blow-up toys left to take home were sheep; she had wanted a dragon. She and Andres squeezed one between their bodies, trying to deflate it.
"Someone needs to squeeze this," I said, pinching the blow-up nozzle. Giggles, erupted.
I had this whip. It was a party favor I found on a table and wrapped, nonchalantly, across my shoulders like a scarf. Even as people started to clear out, in drunkness, in Thursday nightness, a residual sexual tension stimulated the entire space through the “entertainment”, “decorations” and party favors; the air in the space was electrified. The true nature of this space revealed itself. Pristinely white walls, ceiling and poured concrete floors, this was asking for some whipping. And I don’t know how I end up being the soberest of the drunk crowd but occasionally it’s my turn.
So I have to be careful to direct the whipping of MY whip AWAY from the lingering crowd now that we’ve moved on from collectively deflating the sheep to fit into Trina’s black hole of a purse.
Yes, the correct action is in the wrist!
“What are you drinking?” a guy asks me as I direct Andres’ towards Splashlight’s curved white photo wall.
“Gin and tonic.” Or whatever’s still flowing.
“Izzy,” says Andres, as I reach for my turn with MY whip. “Don’t put your drink down.”
And he eyes these 2 or 3 guys. Does he think that was subtle?
“I like the way you handle that whip,” says this guy. And he’s very close to me.
“It’s all in the wrist,” I explain. He laughs. He introduces himself.
“You’re very sexy, Izzy.” He’s rolling something.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” His friends exchange a few looks and I notice that the music has been ended.* For a few minutes. There are people mingling with the crowd who don’t belong.
The whip cracks, quickly followed by cracks of laughter. Peels.
A few guys are hanging around. I know them, either from work or from networking. They knew I would be here, that’s for sure. And I’ve already clued them into Trina's after party at the Thompson Hotel. And they may or may not have tried out the whip—
“You’re amazing,” says S. I can’t say I remember how everything happened, but he was obsessed with me. I forget what I may have said that triggered it, or if it was an act.
Security ushers us out, into the corridor, to the elevator lobby, to the packed elevator. And I think he kissed me in the elevator. So professional. Did I mention I was the soberest? What happened in the other elevators I can only imagine.
Out on the sidewalk, while my friends wait for me or wait for what’s next, I join him in this rolled pleasure and he holds my waist and kisses my neck and all these things are hard to deny after such a charged evening.
I mean, why not?
He kept telling me that he loved me, that we should get married. And I kept my mouth shut. Or maybe not, I don’t actually remember everything. (it isn’t like me to um, ever, keep my mouth shut.)
And we made out on the sidewalk. Among the crowds of people who we may or may not do business with in the coming months. But they were certainly trashed to still stick around.
Disengaging myself, probably by agreeing to meet him at City Hall tomorrow to get married, I dash into the street, where D$ hopes to hail a cab.
“Izzy!” I turn, and there’s a white-haired head sticking out of a limo. Trina!
$$$$
*I am aware this is grammatically incorrect.
I had this whip. It was a party favor I found on a table and wrapped, nonchalantly, across my shoulders like a scarf. Even as people started to clear out, in drunkness, in Thursday nightness, a residual sexual tension stimulated the entire space through the “entertainment”, “decorations” and party favors; the air in the space was electrified. The true nature of this space revealed itself. Pristinely white walls, ceiling and poured concrete floors, this was asking for some whipping. And I don’t know how I end up being the soberest of the drunk crowd but occasionally it’s my turn.
So I have to be careful to direct the whipping of MY whip AWAY from the lingering crowd now that we’ve moved on from collectively deflating the sheep to fit into Trina’s black hole of a purse.
Yes, the correct action is in the wrist!
“What are you drinking?” a guy asks me as I direct Andres’ towards Splashlight’s curved white photo wall.
“Gin and tonic.” Or whatever’s still flowing.
“Izzy,” says Andres, as I reach for my turn with MY whip. “Don’t put your drink down.”
And he eyes these 2 or 3 guys. Does he think that was subtle?
“I like the way you handle that whip,” says this guy. And he’s very close to me.
“It’s all in the wrist,” I explain. He laughs. He introduces himself.
“You’re very sexy, Izzy.” He’s rolling something.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” His friends exchange a few looks and I notice that the music has been ended.* For a few minutes. There are people mingling with the crowd who don’t belong.
The whip cracks, quickly followed by cracks of laughter. Peels.
A few guys are hanging around. I know them, either from work or from networking. They knew I would be here, that’s for sure. And I’ve already clued them into Trina's after party at the Thompson Hotel. And they may or may not have tried out the whip—
“You’re amazing,” says S. I can’t say I remember how everything happened, but he was obsessed with me. I forget what I may have said that triggered it, or if it was an act.
Security ushers us out, into the corridor, to the elevator lobby, to the packed elevator. And I think he kissed me in the elevator. So professional. Did I mention I was the soberest? What happened in the other elevators I can only imagine.
Out on the sidewalk, while my friends wait for me or wait for what’s next, I join him in this rolled pleasure and he holds my waist and kisses my neck and all these things are hard to deny after such a charged evening.
I mean, why not?
He kept telling me that he loved me, that we should get married. And I kept my mouth shut. Or maybe not, I don’t actually remember everything. (it isn’t like me to um, ever, keep my mouth shut.)
And we made out on the sidewalk. Among the crowds of people who we may or may not do business with in the coming months. But they were certainly trashed to still stick around.
Disengaging myself, probably by agreeing to meet him at City Hall tomorrow to get married, I dash into the street, where D$ hopes to hail a cab.
“Izzy!” I turn, and there’s a white-haired head sticking out of a limo. Trina!
$$$$
*I am aware this is grammatically incorrect.
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