Now it turns out that the ducks are shooting the shotguns.
The title, unless translated to Spanish and read by a native speaker, makes no sense to the rest of you. It is a saying that goes: ahora resulta que los patos le tiran a las escopetas, which basically means stepping out of line. And that’s exactly what happened last Tuesday night.
My ongoing pseudo summer romance with ‘Sandpaper’ had come to a stop because he’d been away for the past week. The kid still texted me, and I texted back, but only out of mere politeness (and maybe, just maybe, a bit of intrigue). He had returned to New York on Sunday and had been texting me to meet. I had promised him we’d go to Le Bain so I decided to make plans for Tuesday. I suggested dinner before, but not really a date. It was to be me and ‘Jose Maria’, and him and his friends. Tuesday morning, after settling on the delicious Fatty Crab (for the second week in a row), I ran some errands all day, bought some nice expensive towels, got a manicure and pedicure, and finished cleaning my apartment. I took a shower and headed to the Meatpacking at around 9 pm. ‘Jose Maria’ had been waiting for a couple minutes, we asked for a table and waited for ‘Sandpaper’ who was about half hour late. Finally, I called him and realized he’d been lost wandering the streets of the west village trying to find the place. Tourists!
I told him to stay at a corner, tell me the cross streets and I’d come get him. I found my lost pet on the intersection of Greenwich and 8th Ave. He gave me a big hug and, per French etiquette, a kiss per cheek. We walked back to the restaurant. He said he’d already eaten so he just had an appetizer. Me and ‘Jose Maria’ stuffed ourselves stupid yet again. During dinner, he asked me if I’d been with any boys while he was away. Not that it’s any of his business, but I said “yes” (referring to my wild night of crazy sex at the ACE hotel). He said he’d met some Puerto Rican (again, gross!) earlier in the week and asked me if it was ok if he came to Le Bain. I said “sure”, it’s a bar and i don’t own it, anyone can come.
We finished dinner and headed to The Standard. I got us in without waiting in line and we went upstairs. ‘Sandpaper’ loved it. He said it reminded him of clubs in Paris. I know I’m not a local Parisian, but where are these clubs because I can’t say I’ve been to anything similar. To begin with, no building is that tall (unless they opened a club atop la tour montparnasse), nor do Parisians party the same way we New Yorkers do. It’s not better, it’s not worse, it’s just different.
A French couple who were friends with ‘Sandpaper’ were in town on vacation and met up. They had no issues getting in apparently, and I wouldn’t expect them to. They were lovely. We were finishing our drinks on the rooftop when I decided we should move downstairs. I wanted to persuade everyone into going in the pool (I failed). “Sandpaper’ asked me to come downstairs and help his friend, the guy he’d fucked before, get in. For some stupid reason I decided to help him, and we got the nasty little fucker in. He was some poorly (both in style and actual cost of the garments) dressed, flat cap wearing, jobless, little boricuan bitch from Astoria with a big, shiny belt buckle (unless it’s hermes, please don’t). I was still nice to him, although I was a bit annoyed at ‘Sandpaper’ thinking it’s ok to ask me to get some other dude he’s trying to mack into the club. We all went upstairs and onto the rooftop.
From that point on, ‘Sandpaper’ proceeded to be all cutesie with his “guest”. I was drunk, and somewhat annoyed, so I ignored the rest of the group and went on Grindr. ‘Sandpaper’ tried to include me in the conversation by asking what I thought about French guys, to which I responded: “well let’s see, so far the three I’ve met here including you I’ve fooled around with, and it’s been pretty decent, so I’d say I like them”. ‘Jose Maria’ LOLed, ‘Sandpaper’ and the Puerto Rican were shocked, and sadly, the other two Frenchies didn’t understand a word I was saying as their English was very minimal. A few minutes later, ‘Sandpaper’ tried to get touchy feely with me, to which I caved in a bit just to, as I stated in the previous post, make the hypothetical Hispanic hierarchy known.
We all went downstairs to dance. I got more drinks and suggested we go in the pool. Like I said, no one followed, but I went in anyway. The Boricua, now with his shirt off wearing a tucked in wife beater, gave me a look. Are we kidding here?! Once more, unless it’s Rick Owens, please no wife beaters. I splish splashed for a bit and then decided to head home. I asked ‘Sandpaper’ if he was going to come with as a last chance to redeem himself, but he said he was sharing a cab with the Puerto Rican because they were heading the same direction. I am not certain about how that makes sense being as one lives in Astoria, and the other in Washington Heights, but OK. I left and went home.
The next morning I saw a text from ‘Sandpaper’ asking if I was mad. I responded: “no, why?”. He said I seemed upset. I said I was drunk and tired. End of story.
He’s been trying to contact me all week, and I’ve responded back with one liners. Thursday night, he had the balls to ask me if I could get him into Le Bain again. I didn’t even respond till the next day saying “no, sorry”. I saw him last night at a house party (the same party where I met him), but again, I was short yet polite. Bitch lost his chance. Bitch needs to learn his place. To be honest, it’s not the fact that he was hitting up some other dude that bothers me, I’ve been with both DJ and ‘Fixie’ when they’re doing so and I have no issues. I do it too. It’s more of the fact that he’s neither DJ, nor ‘Fixie’, and does not have the same dynamic I have with them, and is not like them. Plus, asking me to facilitate him getting some ass?! Who on earth has the balls to do that?! Props to him on that point but no semi-hot, quasi smart, pseudo interesting bitch is going to pull shit like that on me. I know I sound like a butt hurt bitch myself, that’s fine, I can can own a bit of that. I’m a really nice guy (as he’s stated in texts trying to get me to talk to him again), but cross me the wrong way and go find yourself a bomb shelter and supplies so you can hide from either my backfire, or wait it out till I cool down, because I usually do, it just takes time. The worst thing is that he was and still is clueless as to what he’s doing wrong. Whatever. Come Sunday bitch goes back to Paris, and that’s that. I’m sure in one way or another he’ll realize it was his loss.
the.applied.process. 