So after the movie, I walked out onto Houston and it was a gorgeous evening, traffic and hipsters and neon everywhere, the city was abuzz. So instead of jumping on the F train, I walked north on Broadway, toward the giant colorful sombrero, a place I call "The Hat" b/c I've never remembered its real name, even though, I've been a patron there for about fifteen years. Lately I've had a thing for Margaritas, and they do it right. Frosty, salty, sexy.
I walked in, sat down at a bar stool, and the man next to me said, "You're beautiful, you're like a supermodel." He was out of his mind drunk; cognition; nil, connection to the real world; 0. He continued, "You know they're not going to serve you. You know you have to be 21." I said, I'm way over 21, I'm 48 (I know, its a lie, shut-up)." He replied, "Damn you sure look good for your age." So sue me, and slam me, I started to find him funny.
I found out that he's the owner of prominent store in Soho that caters to the A-List. That he's a millionaire. He dished a bit about his celeb customers just enough so that I knew he was probably telling the truth (plus I checked it out the next day online). He was outrageous, so much so--- that I knew part of it was tongue in cheek, going for the gold, so to speak, saying the worst and possibly the most sexiest things he could get away with, things like:
"I'm going to take you to Peter Luger's and fatten you up on steak and mushrooms, then I'm going to take you to Brooklyn where I have a bat cave, and I'm going to tie you up, you'll be my sex slave for 24 hours, and when I set you free, when you're roaming the streets of Brooklyn you'll be a changed woman, you'll never be the same. I'll fuck you till eight in the morning, but not a minute past eight because I got to go to work, and you're gonna love it, you're gonna love being my sex slave. You're going to beg me to keep going, past eight in the morning, and I won't, but that's not going to piss you off, because we're gonna start again the next night."
I was so laughing at him. Seriously enjoying myself. I stopped at the second Margarita so I had all my senses intact. I knew he might possibly be a Jeffrey Dahmer and even though he insisted we start tonight, I demurred. In fact, when he asked me if I wanted another drink, I said, "No, and neither do you. I'm walking you home." So we walked, arm and arm, south on Broadway to Prince Street. All the while he's continuing his sex slave narrative, and all the while I'm still laughing.
At his loft, he keyed in the numbers, and asked, "Coming in?" I said, "No dude, remember I'm just making sure you get home safe." He said, "Thanks," and buzzed himself in.
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