02/02/10
Text: Christina Mannatt
If you've ever been to Santos' Party House in New York's Chinatown, then you have seen its signature neon postings along the walls with words of encouragement like: "You Have a Beautiful Face," "And a Nice Body," "It Would be Awesome If You Showed Up With Some Sort Of Cool Hat," and "Santos Wants You To Be Happy." For starters, I was skeptical of Señor Santos' intentions with me, but given my romantic luck as of late, I was enthralled by his brightly colored advances; that Santos can be quite the flirt. Now, let's focus on this last tagline, "Santos Wants You To Be Happy." Taking into consideration the events that followed that fateful night, I have been wondering if you truly have my best interests at heart, dear Santos. Allow me to introduce:
The Jackass
Continuing the whirlwind of fun that was the Summer of (No) Love, I found myself in ol' Santos' barren basement. I had assigned myself to the role of full-time wing-gal, so naturally I kept a watchful eye out for any potential booty for my bosom buddy, Rachel. Shortly after arrival, an acquaintance from back home—who was hosting that particular night—came over to ensure that we were properly liquored up. As Rachel quickly settled on said host's lap, I found myself getting chummy with his attractive, suit-wearing friend (né The Jackass). After a few more beers, I found my tongue in said jackass' mouth. I hadn't participated in a random bar make-out sessions since my slutty senior year of college, which saw its (un)fair share of soused lip locking set to a soundtrack of Top 40 tunes. After coming up for air and noticing that this place was still empty at midnight, Rachel and I faked a bathroom break and flew the coop.
Upon stumbling onto Lafayette Street, I saw my old pal Ted (from my tumultuous encounter with The Foreigner) and his male model companion. We told them it was empty, hopped into their cab and headed over to the late Beatrice Inn. I was quickly immersed in an engaging conversation with The Model (and by engaging conversation, I mean that his bone structure practically hypnotized me) and just as I cuddled up next to him in a smoky booth beneath a disco ball, my Santos smooching partner strolled up the stairs and layed one on me; someone had come back for seconds. I said au revoir to my mannequin friend and spent the rest of the night getting to know The Jackass, who managed to conceal his jackass ways until the very end with a soft-spoken demeanor, foodie knowledge, blush-inducing flattery and an impressive zeal to make a date with me. Eventually 5:30 rolled around—The Bea had to comedown sometime—and, what do you know, I was on the back of The Jackass’ motorcycle enjoying a sunrise across the Williamsburg bridge. Not too shabby for a Tuesday night. Or so I thought.
The next two weeks consisted of flirtatious phone calls—you heard right ladies, actual voice-on-voice contact—in addition to suggestive text play, heavy petting, leg-singeing motorcycle rides, and one drunken sleepover, which came complete with 4 AM blueberry pancakes, bedside espresso and a marriage proposal from yours truly. In my defense, the man told me that he had an organic garden in his backyard; I had to lock that shit down, yo! Between his jackass good looks, retro bike, cooking abilities, outdoor space and on-site produce, he really didn't leave me with any other option. I also discovered that his suit had been hiding a wealth of tattoos, which normally ain't my steeze, but on him they were Jack-tastic. And although I was drowning in anxiety from my hasty altar proposition, I left his place that morning with heirloom tomatoes (see what I mean, with the produce?! Ugh.), a romantic kiss, and an adorably surprising "Bye, wifey!"
While we hadn't yet consummated the relationship, I definitely felt like it was heading in that direction, given his multiple invitations to events much further in the future. [Note to guys/men/Jackasses everywhere: if you invite a girl to a barbeque on Labor Day at the beginning of August, that implies that you intend to date her up until that point, if not longer. Write that one down.] For some reason, though, he seemed hesitant to take it to the next level, and after nine months of holding out, I was far more chooser than beggar. But alas, he kept making plans with me, business as usual, except clearly this d-bag was in the business of making PG movies for heterosexual men who think vaginas have cooties (something I, not unexpectedly, didn't pick up on, what with the tats and the motorcycle and the suits and the general machismo). Then, just as I all but resigned to eternal celibacy, he invited me over to meet his closest friends, which, to me, was the equivalent of suggesting group foreplay. So, wearing my figurative sassy hat and literal George Michael shirt, I made my way over to chez Jackass and charmed their hipster pants right off. I know this was an impressive feat because hipster pants aren't like normal dude pants; they are apathetic, holier-than-thou and disturbingly slim-fitting. Despite their ridiculous pantlessness—and the fact that The Jackass was atypically taciturn—we all headed over to his corner bar, ye olde Bushwick County Club.
Pints of beer turned into shots of whiskey turned into photo booth sessions turned into one of his friends more or less hitting on me. From the surprising amount of compliments he payed and dirt he dished, it became painfully obvious that The Jackass had no intention of making me the leading lady of his NC-17 flick. However, on this extremely intoxicated Wednesday night in Bushwick, I put my irritation and insecurities aside and suggested that I stay the night. After all, he had invited me over with the implication of at least spooning, he lived around the corner, and frankly, George Michael was morphing into Boy George before my very eyes. It was at this suggestion that he turned to me and said, "I don't think that is such a great idea." "Why not?" I replied. "Well, if something happens between us, I think it would mean a lot more to you than it would to me. I'm not looking for a serious thing, here." Et voila: The Jackass.
As I stood there, stunned and speechless in the middle of Grand Street, a vacant cab sent from God himself pulled up and I dove in as he fumbled his way through the "Wait, don't go!" routine. Driving away, I felt alcohol-filled tears well up in my bloodshot eyes. The humiliation, the stupidity, the gross presumption, the intention to leave me belligerent and alone at dawn in Bushwick: The. Fucking. Jackass. Just as a single droplet fell from my face and landed on my "Faith"-singing and felatio-loving friend, I thought to myself, "What would George Michael do?" So, after a quick text to my delicious drummer neighbor/sometimes spit-swapper, I did exactly what George Michael would have done: I ended The Hiatus.
Wham.
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