On moving to NYC I quickly discovered that if I was to find a man who was a) hot and b) vaguely interesting then I would have to venture into 'hipster' territory. For those of you unfamiliar with Yankee terminology, a 'hipster' is a trust-fund kid of privileged up-bringing who in adult life chooses to adopt the housing of a squatter, and the fashion choices of an 80s middle-America reject who got their hair cut for 2 dollars by the meth addict down the street. What us Londoners might call a Hoxton pirate, trustafarian, or quite simply a wanker. Yes, these are the kinds of men who yank my chain. Sickening, I know.
Anyway, I digress...
On one of my earlier voyages into hipster-haven Williamsburg, I stumbled (literally) into a bar and bumped into the most beautiful man I. Have. Ever. Seen. Meet Travis. Travis is HUGE. He is also black and has beautiful long braids down his rippled back, which instantly excites me as I am yet to add a black string to my bow. Travis is the bar tender. Travis surfs. Travis is also the lead singer in a 90s grunge band. Basically, Travis is the holy grail of men. We keep exchanging smiles over the bar and when I sneak out front for a ciggy he follows and says in the most leg tremblingly double bass tones "Howdy". I do a little mental happy dance whilst simultaneously having an orgasm and attempting the most alluring "Hi" I can muster. This little exchange continues for about 10 minutes (surfers are a breed of limited vocabulary and my vagina is literally in my mouth so my conversational abilities are somewhat halted). Travis has to get back to work so he gives me his number and says "call me, we should hang". I give him about 2 seconds to walk away before quickly banging in his number and giving him a call, to which he stops dead, feels for his phone in his pocket and turns around to give me a slow smile. Vagina is yet again in my mouth. He makes me promise to come back to the bar the next week, which I do. Obviously.
Now... Here comes the travesty that is Travis, and what I am discovering is a rather American affliction. I guess it is sweet, but the guy would not leave me alone! Text messages daily, morning, afternoon and nightly to see how I am doing, sometimes a mere "Howdy" would be deemed an appropriate early morning wake-up call. Darling...what is your point? Ask me out on a date already and quit bugging me with non-entities before my morning coffee! It gets worse... So I haven't yet returned to the bar for a third time (I am fresh in the big city - why would I go anywhere 3 times in the space of a month?) and I start to get bored of replying to his continuous stream of flattering, but still repetitious messages. Poor Travis must have gotten worried at my lack of communication and starts firing out the big guns... Cue actual suggestions at a date away from the bar, followed by several "Are you alive?" texts when his date invitations remained unanswered. I think he might actually think I am dead.
Now I don't have to explain how gutted I am to any woman reading this. Travis was a God of men. Why did you have to ruin it Travis?! That could have been the most amazing 20 minutes of my life for fuck's sake Travis!
Hmm... Maybe it's time to pay a third visit to his bar...
Anyway, I digress...
On one of my earlier voyages into hipster-haven Williamsburg, I stumbled (literally) into a bar and bumped into the most beautiful man I. Have. Ever. Seen. Meet Travis. Travis is HUGE. He is also black and has beautiful long braids down his rippled back, which instantly excites me as I am yet to add a black string to my bow. Travis is the bar tender. Travis surfs. Travis is also the lead singer in a 90s grunge band. Basically, Travis is the holy grail of men. We keep exchanging smiles over the bar and when I sneak out front for a ciggy he follows and says in the most leg tremblingly double bass tones "Howdy". I do a little mental happy dance whilst simultaneously having an orgasm and attempting the most alluring "Hi" I can muster. This little exchange continues for about 10 minutes (surfers are a breed of limited vocabulary and my vagina is literally in my mouth so my conversational abilities are somewhat halted). Travis has to get back to work so he gives me his number and says "call me, we should hang". I give him about 2 seconds to walk away before quickly banging in his number and giving him a call, to which he stops dead, feels for his phone in his pocket and turns around to give me a slow smile. Vagina is yet again in my mouth. He makes me promise to come back to the bar the next week, which I do. Obviously.
Now... Here comes the travesty that is Travis, and what I am discovering is a rather American affliction. I guess it is sweet, but the guy would not leave me alone! Text messages daily, morning, afternoon and nightly to see how I am doing, sometimes a mere "Howdy" would be deemed an appropriate early morning wake-up call. Darling...what is your point? Ask me out on a date already and quit bugging me with non-entities before my morning coffee! It gets worse... So I haven't yet returned to the bar for a third time (I am fresh in the big city - why would I go anywhere 3 times in the space of a month?) and I start to get bored of replying to his continuous stream of flattering, but still repetitious messages. Poor Travis must have gotten worried at my lack of communication and starts firing out the big guns... Cue actual suggestions at a date away from the bar, followed by several "Are you alive?" texts when his date invitations remained unanswered. I think he might actually think I am dead.
Now I don't have to explain how gutted I am to any woman reading this. Travis was a God of men. Why did you have to ruin it Travis?! That could have been the most amazing 20 minutes of my life for fuck's sake Travis!
Hmm... Maybe it's time to pay a third visit to his bar...
No comments:
Post a Comment