Sunday, February 6, 2011

the naked man

I wake up this morning to find myself lying in my bed (alone), with a pair of men’s socks on my floor.

Rewind…Last night I went to a house party in the Haight.  The moment I stepped into the super-sexy loft, I knew it was a feeding ground for single yuppies.  I was immediately greeted by a man named Dan who looked just like my friend Dan, but with a better haircut.

Me: “Hey! Good to see, you… you look a little different, did you get a haircut? Wait…do I know you??”
Dan: “No…that’s why I was introducing myself.”

Fast forward through several glasses of champagne and conversations with pretentious late-20 year olds (most of whom were ironically unemployed), to me meeting a guy with a name that screams OLD MONEY!  but we’ll call him Bergamot.   Due to his attractiveness on paper (Ivy league school, PhD candidate at a top medical school), I felt obliged to be interested.  

I leave the party with Bergamot and some new friends and end up at Bigfoot Lodge (again) on Polk Street.  After having a Sasquatch which apparently is another term for “straight Whiskey”, I proceed to be walked home by Bergamot… a walk consisting of me actively stopping a fight from breaking out, Bergamot giving me the Blue Steel stare every 5 seconds  (I think he’d been practicing), then removing his shirt somewhere on Van Ness.

We arrive at my door and I make the mistake of letting him come up for a “drink of water”.  2 seconds later I walk into my room with the water and a view of the Naked Man. Damn, too bad I am not in the mood to have sex with a man who is black-out drunk tonight.  So I ask Bergamot to get dressed (not before checking him out though) and leave, mostly because I just washed my sheets today and it was such a freaking annoying task that there was no way I was going to do it again tomorrow.

Memorable lines on his way out:
“Unless you are Christian, I think you are making a really big mistake”
“Well that’s fine then if you are a virgin… I mean I was a virgin until I was 14”

But hey, I give him props for the forethought he put into the night…as he pulled out a pen and a neatly folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket to ask for my number.  Despite that, the last thing I saw from Bergamot was a middle finger before I shut the door in his face. 

1 comment:

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