Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Virginal Sacrifice - Part I

I first moved to New York when I was 23. TWENTY-THREE. It sounds so young now. At the time, however, I felt mature - worldly, even. I had just finished traveling around the world with my college roommate, Carrington, and I finally picked NYC as a resting spot - at least for the time being.

Having had a serious boyfriend in college, and then a series of not-so-serious flames (read: hook-ups) thereafter, I considered myself rather accomplished in the dating arena. I expected to take on New York in a blaze and dazzle them all with my sparkling personality (not to mention my rather fit 23 year old body ... God bless youth).

Little did I know that I was walking into a brutal, bloody dating arena, where the seasoned, pampered men of NYC would chew me up and spit me out, before I even knew what hit me.

I was a walking sacrifice (please allow me to take liberties with the "virginal" part of the title).

And, I even looked the part. I had chunky streaks of highlights in my dark brown hair, slip dresses, and inappropriate shoes. My boots were chunky and I could never figure out when to wear strappy or closed-toes heels. Add the fine gloss of my slighty-Southern drawl, and BAM: WALKING TARGET.

Now, enter James Roman Marks (a.k.a. "Roman"). Obviously, I should have known that anyone with a soap-opera name was destined to bring nothing but bad drama to my life. However, I was young and unbelievably impressed by this confident (cocky), good looking (relatively), rich (compared to a waitress), older (28 - practically ancient) guy who took an avid, undeniable interest in me from my first week in New York.

I almost envy men like Roman. The City is their veritable playground (as they say), and I was but one of many unwitting swings, on which good ol' Rome took a ride.

Roman was an interesting case. The older brother of a high school friend, we had met a few times when I was a teenager. He was just as cocky then, only much better looking. City life had been rough on him - adding premature weight and an extra bit of age that comes from the type of indulgence well-known to many men in Roman's position. He was a sales-man of sorts. He worked for a major finance company and his sole purpose was to woo clients. He actually got paid to go out to dinner, to bars, to strip clubs, and entertain people with his stories of high life in the big city - partying down and chasing young tail like myself.

Being young and naive, Rome presented an interesting challenge. A high school crush embodied in a seemingly powerful NYC man. Curious, I extended an invitation to my apartment-warming party. Upon arrival, Roman apologized for his tardiness, but, as he said, they had an "event" to attend at the New York Athletic Club. A gym? I thought to myself. "Oh," I said with all of the nonchalance I could muster, "I hear that's a decent place to work out. I think a few of my friends belong there. I was even thinking of getting a membership."

Now, to any of you familiar with The City, you will understand why Roman and his playpen buddies could not help but let a few snickers escape. NYAC is one of the more expensive, exclusive clubs in New York. Working out in their facilities is certainly a possibility, but it's really more of an after-thought. People (correction: men) don't join for the weight room, they join for the billiard room, the bar, the restaurant, and - let's be honest - for the prestige. Men are barred entry without a suit jacket, which is one of many things that makes this organization less than conducive to actually working out, despite it's "athletic" name. Silly little Southern girl, I was thinking of the New York SPORTS Club, which is one of the more, if not the only, affordable chain of gyms in the City.

Roman quickly, and with obvious enjoyment, took pleasure in disabusing me of any notion that I - a mere waitress - would be joining his "Athletic" Club. "Oh, darlin'," he continued, "you'll figure things out eventually." And with that, he snaked his arm around my waist, quietly claiming his next victim.

His not-so-subtle condesention worked. One could practically see the hook catching me by the mouth, as he led me over to the bar for another vodka-soda. The age old mystery continues: what is it about assholes that makes them so damn appealing?

Well, if I do say so myself, I exhibited massive self-restraint. It took him a full 4 hours to get me into bed, and another 20 minutes to talk me into having unprotected sex with him. Truly, I deserve a medal.

The funny thing is, I felt accomplished somehow. Ugh, how sick is that? I felt that I bagged this quality catch my first week on the NYC Hunt. The sex was decent, but I wasn't too put off by the lack of fireworks. He - on the other hand - was emphatic about how "great" it was, and I am sure it was --- for him, anyways. Now, I was ready to "get off" in my own way - I planned to spoon late into the morning and then let him take me out for a lazy Sunday brunch. Maybe we would catch a matinee? So many options! It would be purrrrrfect.

You, dear reader, will obviously not be surprised to know that I woke up the next AFTERNOON, caught in the web of my vicious hangover, with the morning light revealing a feeling of sheer mortification. Not to mention, I was sleeping buck-naked, curled in a tight ball on the opposite side of his King bed - while he was splayed out, spread eagle, with every inch of sheet and comforter wrapped about him.

To Roman's benefit, he caught me in an embrace when I tried to sneak out. "Where are you going?" he asked groggily. "Yes!" was all I could think. It wasn't just the vodka and my own naivete! I mentally readied myself for the day of romance that was about to ensue. Rome whispered in my ear, fluttering a God-awful case of morning breath across my face, "one more time before you go."

Oh, the sweet, sweet sounds of romance. My new fuck-buddy wanted to bang me one more time before shipping me off. Eat your heart out, Jane Austen.

And, of course, being the silly little lamb that I was, I complied. We had another bought of mediocre sex before he informed me that there would be no brunch, no matinee, no late morning snuggles. He had to "work" or attend the "Club" or some other bullshit excuse involving a plan that did not involve me. So, I put back on my little slip dress and inappropriate heels. I ran my fingers through my skunk-streaked hair, and tried my best to remove the mascara from under my eyes with a spit-covered finger.

As I completed the proverbial walk of shame back to my apartment, I could not help but find gratitude that I lived in a City that saw far more outrageous things than another twenty-something walking hangover in black lace at 1pm on a Sunday. At that very moment, an eldery gentleman on a unicycle zipped by, holding a leash that led to a small terrier trailing behind him. My mind eased somewhat, and I gripped the front slit of my dress a little less tightly. I might not fit in Roman's world, but I could definitely fit in this one.

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