NY Mirror

Kiss kiss bang bang?
But for every misstep, a slut gets handed a giant plum, and sure enough things clicked again back at Duvet, where I met a young Michael Hutchence look-alike who'd just moved here, obviously via spaceship. He was sprawled out on a bed, beaming from God knows how much booger sugar and booze. The new, friendlier me said "hi" and he immediately responded, "I want to make out with you." We were truly skipping all the boring stuff now—you know, time wasters like "What's your name?" and "Where am I?" Quickly enough, his tongue was so far down my oral cavity it was almost cleaning out my kneecaps—for three straight hours. How was this happening? I don't know, but per usual, I left the guy at the proverbial altar, pretty sure he wouldn't remember one second of it all by daybreak.

By now, I was making such frequent public spectacles that I thought the townspeople would stone me like MONICA BELLUCCI in Maléna. But I had miraculously acquired some mojo and I was determined to work it to full release. Too bad the magic didn't last nearly as long as my hard-on. On the phone, the wispy guy from the me sandwich apologized for having been so drunk that night, which I took to mean that he had since awakened into sanity. Back at Happy Valley, my Caribbean queen was now enveloped in his real love; the Hutchence guy was admitting he's a starfucker and by the way he's fantasized about killing me; and the striped-outfit admirer was back with the "boyfriend." I'd lost my touchy-feely touch. I'd cockteased away all my hot chances and now they'd returned to the safety of each other. I'd had nine potential boyfriends and somehow ended up alone!

A Musto sandwich on gentleman toast
photo: Jonathan Bee
A Musto sandwich on gentleman toast

Undaunted, I took my equipment to an uptown dinner party, where I met an Italian guy with a puppy dog face who moaned that gay nightlife isn't what it used to be. I vehemently disagreed and offered to show him around, handing him my number with a bold smile. I'd gotten so shockingly confident. The only problem is he never called. And back at Duvet, even toothless troglodytes with three heads were taking a pass. Maybe word had gotten out that I'm an indiscriminate slut—oh yeah, I'd written that myself. And maybe I was getting too slick and not projecting the raw yearning that had attracted guys in the first place. I needed to throw away the Neurontin and have another breakdown.

Meanwhile, my only hope—short of that guy on the business card—was the trouser pipe hottie from that Avalon three-way. He'd called me repeatedly since then, but I'd played hard to get, stupidly wanting to move on to the next flavored jellybean before coming back for seconds. I was a mess, remember? But now I was anxious for someone to hold on to and maybe even develop a semi-quasi-relationship with. I might even consider taking him home this time. I nobly left the guy a message, offering him his choice of any club night-out he wanted. I was cocksure he'd come a-crawling with his tongue out. But shockingly enough, he didn't call back! I was devastated by the dis, retching from the taste of my own medicine. I'd gone from a sizzling stud back to a lonely letch in just two months. "Oh, good," I consoled myself. "This kind of utter collapse is just what you need to get action again." And then he called. Help!

No, wait, we made a date, then he never followed through! I was horrified again. How many of these ups and downs could a simple girl handle? But in the meantime I met a really sweet Hungarian guy who's cuckoo-crazy about me. Help!


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