I woke on a Saturday morning and found a Facebook message from Urban Sprawl about a rooftop party in Hell’s Kitchen thrown by some gays we didn’t know. A few of us responded that we were down, but Urban Sprawl, our one link to the party, was avoiding committing to a time. I wasn't so much in the mood for the “hi, I’m the friend of that guy last weekend that you invited to the party who isn’t here yet” conversation, so I just decided that I’d show up late as hell.
|image from marcoda.wordpress.com|
Is it a rule that all staircases in Hell’s Kitchen have to be steep and tilted to the point where you’re not sure they’re gonna support your weight? Because it’s certainly a trend (with no elevator… rude!). Anyway, I dropped my liquor off on the 4th floor, (out of breath) and made myself a drink to carry up to the roof. Did I mention it was like 50 degrees and overcast?!
After a short while, 3 cute white guys came up to the roof and introduced themselves. Two of them were a couple, and one was their friend. As we talked, the topic of where people were from came up.
Guy : “I’m from [Eastern Europe].”
Other Guy: “You’re from [Midwest]!”
Guy: “How the hell am I from [Midwest]?”
Guy: “How the hell am I from [Midwest]?”
Other Guy: “You spend more time in [Midwest] than you did in [Eastern Europe]!”
Guy: “No, I spent 10 years in [Midwest] and 15 years in [Eastern Europe]… where I was born!”
Me: “He has the accent to prove it.”
I thought the guy with the accent was cute, but he seemed both uninterested and unavailable. I was talking with the Other Guy, who was telling me about how he lived in Brooklyn with his boyfriend: “We almost never leave Park Slope on the weekends! All the train construction has never affected us!” At that point, I started to wonder if owner-gays get as bored when we talk about clubbing and hooking up as we do when they talk about their mortgages and renovations.
|image from 718brooklyn.wordpress.com|
. o O (Now I see why your ass stays in Park Slope!)
The Ivy League Crew et al left soon thereafter to grab dinner.
While at dinner, I started talking to this guy who had a French flag on his Grindr profile. Y'all know how I am about accents! He was cute and seemed very interested, but I wasn’t sure where the night would lead, so I didn’t commit myself to any plans with him.
Saturday night was all over the place. I stopped by Ligaly Blonde’s birthday party, which was another rooftop party in Hell's Kitchen. Except they were trying to keep people out of the apartment, and the smoker-per-square-foot ratio of Long Islanders is much higher than City-gays. Between the smoke and the cold, I think I lasted about a half hour before heading across town to another friend’s birthday celebration.
On Sunday, I actually got laundry done before I left the house (thanks mostly to Bottomless Pitt’s alleged hiatus from drinking). I hollered at ASFKAB to see if he was going to the Eagle, but he said he and some friends were headed to Gym Bar. I went to meet them down there, but, of course, they were on the smoker’s patio. I opted to breathe clean air and entertain myself with Grindr and Twitter (follow me) while drinking. And I ended up running into The Count (a guy I met online 2 years ago who paid my admission to The Black Party less than a week after we met and then stopped calling me a week later) and talking to him for an hour or so.
|image from Gawker.com|
As we talked, it came out that he’d never done the online thing: “I asked my friend to show me how to do it. He just told me not to even try.” And, well, you guys know how I do. Eventually, I told him I was waiting on a guy that I’d met on Grindr. At one point while we were talking, he made eye contact with a very tall, very handsome Italian guy standing near us, and they started talking. I knew I was no competition for this guy who was much closer to his age, but just as I was admitting defeat, I caught a glimmer of recognition in the crowd.
Me: “Hey, how’s it going?”
Him: “Good, how about you?”
Me: :Good, thanks. Good to see you. I guess you left the boyf at home, huh. He doesn’t like The Eagle?”
Me (pausing): “Oh, you don’t have a boyfriend, huh.”
Me: “Right, we were talking on Grindr! I thought I had met you at this party yesterday…”
Him: “Oh wow. Um, you did. We talked for a while.”
Him: “Wow, let’s get you a drink.”
Me: “Shit, I didn’t realize that was you on Grindr! Why do you have a French flag on your profile?”
Him: “Actually, it’s Russian. It’s the closest thing I could find to the [Eastern European country] on those symbols for the iPhone.”
Me (mumbling): “Thank god the drinks are strong here.”
Luckily, that was the end of my Stupid-American comments for the night. We had a couple of drinks at The Eagle before heading to a diner for dinner. Once we had paid our check, nothing was really said about going back to his place (which just happened to be on the same block as Duplex’s duplex), we just walked and talked.
Him (at the door): “So, do you want to come up?”
Me: “Um, yah!”
Did I mention that my attraction to men with foreign accents only been justified and fortified? Jah!
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