Gather ’round, boys and girls, for a salacious little tale. Get comfortable cause this story-teller is a little long-winded today.
[If you are a family member, maybe you don’t want to read this post. Fair warning.]
When I first moved to the big city, I was working multiple jobs to keep myself afloat [the glamorous life]. One mid-summer day, I arrived at a place-o-employ and was sent out on the afternoon’s assignment, which amounted (essentially) to door-to-door sales of our product at bars.
“Start in the Lower East Side and see how it goes,” they said.
I jumped on the subway, eager to smash through my goals for the day [arbitrary as they were].
I emerged on Houston and immediately realized what an insurmountable task lay ahead of me. There are exactly 23,293,950,394 bars in the LES. Where would I start?
I eyed a bar that I had patronized once and decided that was as good a place to begin as any.
I entered LESBar and found three people inside. A patron, a bartender, and a man in a trucker hat standing at the far end of the bar [patron? bartender’s friend? other?]. I asked for the manager, and after a slight hesitation, the bartender informed me that he was currently “in charge.”
I jumped into my spiel – all the while TruckerHat offered his snarky commentary. As this was the first time I had ever given this pitch, I was more than slightly annoyed [though, it’s important to note that I found TruckerHat oddly attractive in a sugly sort of way]. Couldn’t he keep his comments about social networking and midwestern-tourists-in-cabs to himself? I reached the end of my presentation (the point at which a person “in charge” would have to make a decision) and the bartender gave me the brush-off. “I’ll run it by the owner. I can’t really make those sorts of decisions…” [Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?! I wouldn’t have wasted my time!]
“Eh. Why not? Let’s do it.” TruckerHat chimed in.
It was soon revealed to me that TruckerHat, snarky commentary and all, was the owner of the bar. [Incognito! Muahaha!]
TruckerHat and I proceeded to have an awkward conversation about bars and ATMs outside of his establishment while he plastered our decal in his window. I went on my merry way.
I solicited a few other bars [unsuccessfully] and then journeyed over to some friends’ apartment. We had an evening of happy hours and marathon drinking planned. I began to relay to them the events of my day, when one stopped me mid-story.
“LESBar? Doesn’t CListCelebrity own that place?” she asked.
“Uh. I don’t know? I don’t think so? That definitely isn’t the person that I talked to today…” I responded.
I grabbed a laptop and pulled up the bar’s website. Sure enough, CListCelebrity and his brother TruckerHat were featured proudly on the About page.
We soon left and began our Friday night bar crawl. After the third location, I decided it was time for us to return to LESBar. [Obviously, many drinks into my evening, this was a good and right decision. Can I get an amen? No? OK.]
We arrived at LESBar and I hunted my friend TruckerHat down.
“Hey! Aren’t you that girl from earlier?”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
My friends and I saddled up to the bar and had a rollicking good time. My friend TruckerHat sort of lurked at the corner of the bar, chiming in occasionally. As the evening was drawing to a close, my friend whispered in my ear, “I think TruckerHat is really into you.” Now, I’m a girl who is prone to self-loathing and for most of my life believed that no gentleman would ever be attracted to me. However, I had picked up on this, too.
They soon kicked everyone out of the bar, as it was the witching hour (4:00 am). Everyone, that is, except the bartenders, bouncers, and me. TruckerHat and I finally started having a real conversation. We chatted about music and gum. You know, the usual. He asked me how I was getting home.
“Well. I’ll just jump on the subway here and transfer at Herald Square and take the train to Queens.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just get on the subway at Union Square? So then you don’t have to transfer?”
“Uh… I guess so, but I’m not going to walk to Union Square.”
“Do you want a ride?”
“Do you have a car?!?”
“No. I have a motorcycle.”
TruckerHat went to grab me a helmet and while he was gone, the bouncer plopped down on the stool next to me.
“So, uh. Do you know who that is?”
“Yeah. But do you know WHO he is?”
“Uh. He owns the bar?” At this point, I knew what he was getting at, and I decided to play dumb.
“No. Do you know who his BROTHER is?”
“Well… I didn’t, but I do now.”
It was the strangest “you should be so lucky” exchange [well… probably the only] I have ever had in my whole life. TruckerHat and I exited and, after a very brief tutorial, jumped on his motorcycle.
Naive as I am, I truly thought that he was giving me a ride to the subway. You can imagine how surprised I was when, at the point when he should have made a left, he turned right. We pulled in front of a brownstone and he told me to hop off the bike so that he could park it. I obliged, still confused.
He led me up to his apartment, gave me the 5 cent tour, and told me he was going to take a shower.
[I’m going to poll the audience here: every gay man that I’ve recounted this story to has told me “I’m going to take a shower” is an invitation to join. Every straight female insists “I’m going to take a shower” means “I’m going to take a shower.” Thoughts?]
Because I had consumed many, many drinks over the course of the evening, I made myself comfortable on his bed (read: I sorta passed the fuck out). TruckerHat came back to his bedroom (naked, naturally), turned off the lights and crawled into bed. I nestled myself in next to him. With him in his birthday suit and the evening heading in a sort of obvious direction, I realized it was time for some real talk.
[Now, if you’ve made it this far, I guess I need to make a little confession. When I first moved to New York, I was Cher, except I had my driver’s license. What can I say? I went to a Catholic school and then I went to school with a bunch of gays. The opportunity just never really presented itself. Also, as I mentioned before, I am prone to self-loathing and thought no one would ever be attracted to me. Ever. And I had a lot of anxiety about it. I was convinced that I was going to be Andy Stitzer. I wish Girls had been on television in my early twenties so that I could have lived vicariously through Shoshanna.]
As the groping began, I pulled away. “Um. I have something to tell you…”
I hesitated. “Um. Well. What’s the WORST thing that I could say?”
“That you’re a dude.”
“WHAT!?!? Do I LOOK like a dude?!?!”
“No. But that is definitely the worst thing you could say.”
“No. Um… I’m sort of… not that experienced.”
“Oh. Well we don’t have to have sex…” He then mounted me and shoved his penis in my face. I will just tell you this: he didn’t have particularly good aim.
Sorry, TruckerHat. That was just not in the cards for you that night.
I promptly left, hopped in a cab, and rode the 59th Street Bridge to Astoria.
I’ve since learned that there have been many other victims of his penis shoving ways, despite the fact that he has a long-term girlfriend.
C-List Celebrity’s Brother? Definitely NOT my boyfriend. Oh well. At least I’ll always have the motorcycle ride.