look at me, i'm sandra dee

Yesterday, I finally fulfilled my dream of spending an entire day in the city alone.  Kinda.  Last Thursday, I went to Splash, which is my favorite (see also: only one I really know about) gay club in Manhattan.  This time, I went with my co-worker, the same one who creeped me out at Fire Island a few weeks ago.  He has since calmed down.  In fact, he's moved on and is now sexually conquering Long Island, one male at a time.  Good for him.  However, he refers to me as "Sandra Dee," because a) his American pop-culture references are limited to Grease and Toto's "Africa," which he plays on YouTube every day in our office and b) because I am apparently a prude, virginal type awaiting a leather-clad transformation.

In all honesty, I am sort of jealous of his maneating ways.  I sometimes wish I had the confidence to be totally obnoxious and think that I have some sort of sexual relevance and that anyone who I proposition would want me, and then I wake up.  So, our trip to Splash was almost a scientific study.  I was trying to see how this person, who is short and not exactly beefcake status, brings all the boys to the yard.  I was observing and taking notes.  Once I realized that having a notebook and pen in a club of sweaty boys dancing to the only Beyonce song I've ever really liked probably drove more boys away than brought them to me, I ditched the notebook and just started dancing.

For the record, I didn't really have a notebook.  But I did try to watch him and see what it was.  And I figured it out - he acts like a macho asshole.  His version of dancing closely resembles a bodybuilder admiring themselves in the mirror.  It's like he's flexing all of his muscles simultaneously while throwing in a few head nods.  And for the love of God, it works for him.  He took off his shirt and that was the last I saw of him because he was off meeting boys left and right.  Or having sex in dark corners.  Not entirely sure.

After about 3 hours of dancing by myself, I decided it was time to go.  No one had approached me the entire night.  Just typing that sentence wreaks of desperation and implies that I was looking for validation from it.  Validation might not be the right word, but confidence boosting might be.  I mean, if my awkward co-worker can get three guy's phone numbers (including one with a boyfriend already), and I can't even get a "what's up?"  Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee.

I do get the gay-man-glare, though.  I get that all the time.  You know, the "I'm walking by you and looking you up and down.  And up and down.  And one more time in case you didn't see me glaring at you before, I'm just going to do it again, okay, and I'm still going to stare until you acknowledge this incredibly awkward check-out that has turned out to last about 30 seconds."  That one.  But for some reason, that never leads to "hey, what's up?"  Or so I thought.

As we left the club, the very definition of "my type" stopped me and started talking to me outside.  As I looked over at awkward co-worker, who was literally shirtless and making out with a boy on the sidewalk of 17th Street at 2:30 AM, I realized I had some time to kill.  I talked to the hottie who turned out to be from Israel.  Even hotter.  And he's moving back to Israel in two weeks.  Not so hot.  But just my luck.

We exchanged numbers and went on our separate ways.  When I went into the city yesterday to spend some time reading in the park, I ended up doing no such thing, and instead, spent the entire day with him.   We started out with Thai food.  Anyone who really knows me knows that this never happens.  One time, for my friend's birthday dinner, I brought McDonald's into a Thai restaurant.  I was also 20 pounds overweight at the time, but that just shows you how much I hate Thai food.  I hate it so much I'm willing to insult their restaurant with the greatest offense: bringing in fucking McDonald's.  So, yay for trying new things.  Even if it was just a cup of soup and a French Martini.

Then, we went to the Museum of Sex, which I have wanted to visit since I moved here.  I thought I knew where I was going, but because I was with a beautiful man, the gods had to make me look like a fool and I got lost.  But luckily, we found it eventually.  It was interesting.  A lot smaller than I expected (which is so often the case when sex is involved...) but interesting.  The best part was the animal sex exhibit, which you could kind of tell was trying really hard to prove that homosexuality is totally natural.  Seriously, every blurb about a species sex habits was sure to include that homosexuality has been observed.  And did you know that bears, among other species, masturbate?  I literally watched a female bear rub one out.  And I learned that male mallards sometimes try to rape another male mallard mid-flight, and the mallard being chased can die from trying to escape, and once dead, the rapist mallard rapes him.  Homosexual mallard necrophilic rape.  How about that shit?

And also, I discovered that some people wear latex women suits that are, by far, the scariest things I've ever seen.  All I could think was "it puts the lotion on its hands..."

After the Museum of Sex, which the gorgeous-but-soon-leaving Israeli said was his museum, since he is a vault of sex, we wandered back up to his apartment.  His apartment was huge.  And no, this is not a double entendre.  Though he doesn't know it, I got totally jealous just being in such a huge fucking apartment in the city.  He got me drunk just in time for me to go meet Claire, my sweet, sweet Claire who was in New York with her mom and brother celebrating her 21st birthday.  Luckily, I was just drunk enough to kiss him before I went.

What surprised me most about my adventure was myself and the changes that have clearly been happening without my conscious knowledge.  A year ago, I wouldn't have even let myself enjoy a day with someone knowing that they're leaving.  I'd think "what's the point?"  And now, I see lots of points.  A year ago, I wouldn't be so overtly flirtatious.   A year ago, I wouldn't make the first move and give him a kiss.  A year ago, I wouldn't be myself around someone exciting - I'd try to be a better, more exciting version of myself.

I may still be a Sandra Dee (which is true, because the closest we got to sex was observing it at the Museum), but I'm proud of myself for not depending on someone else to make me happy.  Whether that be sexually happy, romantically happy, or just happy happy - I feel less dependent on other people and more enriched by other people.  My day would have been great by myself yesterday, but it was just better because I got to spend it with an interesting new person.

I'm the one that I wawooowanttttt. Hoo hoo hoo, honey.

But really, if you know any cute boys who are staying in the US for longer than 2 weeks, let me know.