Sexless in the City

Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Sexless at the convention

Yes, at long last I return. Sorry for taking such a long leave of absence from blogging. But unexpectedly, I’ve been able to attend the RNC the last two days. But don’t worry, liberal readers: I mention this only as context for the (mostly) non-partisan gossip to follow.

And for artistic merit ...
Given the well-orchestrated security in place, you of course have to have a pass for each event. Not till yesterday, however, did I notice the passes were numbered based on the sessions. Since Monday had two and yesterday one, the Tuesday-night pass had a “3” on it. At first I thought the number referred to my seating section or level of access, but then I realized everyone was a “3” ... though not in the view of all beholders.

I spent the afternoon working a swank, pre-convention event, so when I showed up at the Garden I was wearing the classy black dress from my brother’s wedding, and sporting a fun, flirty new ’do from the afternoon's haircut. But don’t let me try to say I like good. I prefer to use the words of a clever, middle-aged volunteer (I think his hair was actually white) assigned to greet arriving conventioneers. As I passed by he said, “You’re a ‘10’ not a ‘3’.” Isn’t that a scream? Almost as funny as Bloomie’s claim that the amount of volunteer support secured for the event shows how much New Yorkers wanted the convention here.

It's a small town after all
Bloomberg spoke on Monday, and in the morning session no less, so you probably didn’t hear about it much. Monday I got access because an old family friend from Arizona is a delegate to the convention. We failed to connect after the evening session, however, leaving me at loose ends for post-session partying. But then as luck would have it, I ran into Yale Hotpot having a phone conversation. He is tan and affable, and walks down the many flights of stairs with me. But as we reach the main entrance and spy the sea of people swarming toward the exits, he realizes he needs to use another exit (smart move). I, like an idiot, am convinced I need to keep going the direction I started and see no reason to tag along with him, although perhaps I could’ve finagled my way into joining him at some fun after-party.

Of course, this dawns on me far too late. Swallowing a lingering disappointment at this tactical failure, I proceed toward the exits, and upgrade the umbrella confiscated earlier that morning for a drug-company promo with a flashlight at the end (there was no way to find my nondescript $5 one in the pile of umbrellas but at least I traded blue-for-blue; if only the airports let you reclaim scissors like that!).

Finally outside, I stood by a railing on the steps for a while, trying to decide if I was ready to train home and turn my adrenaline into blogging (a resounding “no” was the consensus of my gut). I tried calling a couple friends who might know about a Turtle Bay party that night, but no luck.

And then somehow this man my father’s age struck up conversation with me. The next thing I know, he and a spunky female colleague from the North Carolina delegation are inviting me to join them in checking out a Travis Tritt party at the Hammerstein Ballroom. The woman is a riot, and keeps inching closer and closer to the stage. Eventually we end up right against the good-natured security staff so that we are in hand-shake range when Travis says goodbye to fans.

On how to be not-quite indiscrete
Both the North Carolinans are married, but not to each other; the woman joked about pretending to throw a fit when the man gets talking to other woman. A telling remark. Although nothing has been blatantly inappropriate, there’s something about his behavior that makes we feel a little uneasy — woman’s intuition at its best, I guess. Somehow the Politician walks this fine line between not quite being inappropriate, and not quite being appropriate. There’s something about the way his hand settles on my waist for picture-taking sessions that is distinctly un-fatherly.

Oh, but that would be for the photos from last night. You see, Monday night, since we were still only new acquaintances, he put his hand on my shoulder (and I have the picture to prove it; when we met up last night, he’d already gotten prints made of the digital party pics from the night before). But he and the woman were so taken with me (and so eager to set me up with a younger delegate from their state) that they promised to try and get me access for Tuesday night.

Which they did. Of course, it somehow worked out that all my contacts were made with the Politician (sigh). Worse yet, the woman was only around for a little bit last night, and then we couldn’t find her when we all set off for the Texas party we attended last night.

It must be the new hair
There are more hijinx from that session to report, but since I’ve less than an hour to ready myself before leaving for tonight’s session (yes, the Politician got me another pass), I’ll have to save that story for tomorrow. Quick teaser on the party: when I picked up my bag before we left the coat-check guy said he remembered me as the “hot girl with the heavy bag.” Maybe the new ’do temporarily upped my hotness?

Or perhaps it’s the sparkly makeup. The Tim Robbins Type was a guest at the party I volunteered for, and we got a chance later to chat over cocktails. When discussing the married benefactor dilemma, he remarked upon the advantages of a pretty smile ... after complicating my dress and the subtly effectiveness of my makeup.

Oy. More tomorrow on contact with Covert Romantic (who proves to play violin and run a chemistry lab or something) and why pretty girls get stuck at the check-in table.

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