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 22, 2004

A wined-and-wearied woman

Blogging in the morning before work didn’t go too well today, so I’m going to try “scribbling” a few notes and see how dreadful they sound. Sorry for the disruption in my usual story-telling mode, ya’ll; still adjusting to this crazy work thing!

An hourly rate has now been determined, and possible future projects mentioned. I was even advised of a full-time position for which they’re hiring, but I think I’m too experienced and too prone to boredom to take on what is essentially an admin job plus a little research. We’ll see what happens.

The name game
But onto the real drama of the night: my monthly cocktail hour (not, as I once suggested to a friend, an hour devoted to cock in search of tail ... although the man-to-woman ratio is rather estrogen-light). Wow, in the wee hours of the night, clearly I don’t give a fig what men think of my language.

Of course there really weren’t any love-life prospects ... for me ... at tonight’s event. Just a lot of people I’m coming to call friends — especially men. The Harvard Lickwit was not in attendance, but Covert Romantic was (as expected). Poor chap had his work cut out for him, though, what with the crowd of men surrounding me at times: Tim Robbins Type, the Sexless Blogfather, and even Fontinator! Oh, but I should note: in exchange for certain items (including dinner and a much-coveted bottle of ketchup), Fontinator has requested both a gmail invite and an upgrade in his name.

So, readers, the man formerly known as Fontinator will now be known as “Mr. Fontastic.” Man, I’m a pushover for good eats and better stories ... But I will concede that the new name is a) “less robotic” and b) more conducive to eyebrow-wraggling than the old name. What can I say? Sometimes even I, the allegedly “Articulate International Woman of Internet Porn” need a little help in the wordsmith department.

Which is why, as you may recall, I’ve requested help renaming Spooning Fork (yes, another one is coming soon). Sadly, that’s an even less-appealing project, it appears, than entering this month’s contest. Come on now, people! I’ve added gmail to the prize pool! Besides, I have just one, yes, one, entry to date — and that reader did not exactly try to answer the question. But faced with a choice between honoring a solitary-but-incomplete entry ... or calling the contest a draw ... I, um, call for further entries so the results don’t end up looking like they’re fixed. (Anna arches the famously scolding Broadway eyebrow.)

Help wanted?
Mr. Fontastic had all sorts of ribald ideas about how I might flesh out this blog entry — and explain my relative Thursday-morning silence — but I’m trying to be a good girl, I am! But, if you insist, a few requisite tidbits I can’t neglect to share (again, the late-night disregard for appearances of propriety).

Among certain highlights of the evening, I enjoyed an drawn-out lesson in patience while waiting for late-evening dinner at a well-kept-secret restaurant on the borders of Soho and the Lower East Side called Freeman’s Alley. Definitely worth checking out, if you live in the city. Features include a limited but excellent menu (Mr. Fontastic ensured I was amply stuffed with trout, bones notwithstanding), and the diverse collection of stuffed heads mounted on the walls.

A question of position
Animal heads, of course — I’ve just forgotten the proper word for them. There was a very-small but live animal — actually a kind of caterpillar — that briefly made an appearance, but I’m sure that had nothing to do with the condition of the facilities. I was mostly too busy sucking on olives from the bar to notice anyway. And trying not to pay too close attention to a certain rather interesting exchange between Mr. Fontastic and, um, the third party in our group. They were busy comparing biceps and buzzes, and deciding whose coat should be on top.

Of course hers went on the bottom ... because, being white, it was more vulnerable to staining should someone slosh an incautious wine glass (say that outloud without saying “glass” as “glash”! ;)) Like I said, I was sucking away on my olives, trying not to learn why Catherine was so Great to some of her, um, possessions, and why Prince Albert got his piercing (something to aid in horse-riding, claims the white-coated woman in our party).

It’s hard to tell ...
But the one urban legend put to rest without a doubt was Anna’s ignorance of how to tell between a normal male package and the other kind. Mr. Fontastic very kindly demonstrated the difference by pressing his knuckles against my shoulder. So now I know the difference between knuckles at rest and knuckles at half-mast. Isn’t that great? I’m sure that’ll come in really handy the next time I’m not sure if a guy is randy, or just bumping my arm to ask if he could have some more brandy ... from the bottle Andy brought with the Christmas candy.

When I should quit
And yeah. Truly horrible “poetry” is the sign Anna’s clearly reached the end of her midnight blogging. Thanks for checking in, ya’ll! I promise this column should get better once I find my feet in this working thing.

Tata ...
-your nearly delirious, intrepid (not tepid) New Yorker.

Note: By-the-Buy to come in the morning. Maybe. Or poke around the blog archives! And coming soon, wedding-guest blues and the story on how I promised a goodbye grope to 5% Man.