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It was brought to my attention a few times that my previous post is a bit sensual.

That isn't the impression I was trying to give, although now I know I can successfully continue my path towards erotica fiction, my ultimate dream!

I suppose I was trying, in a way, to show my emotions for someone who I find to be extraordinary, but who is also completely and totally unattainable, as are most of the men who I find to be swoon-worthy in this city. Every man who has unknowingly won me over is at least 31 and engaged.

But they are also always successful (this doesn't mean wealthy), motivated, driven people. They are intelligent and well-spoken. They make me laugh. They knew what they wanted out of life and they went after it. They are also involved in engagements, which one, a certain Mr. Killa, as he will be called, is obviously not too committed. What business is that of mine, anyway? As long as you're just flirting, then running out in a frenzy and never looking my direction again, you're in the safe, Mr. Killa. But thanks for leading me on, asking me to drinks twice and playing some mean games of footsie and eye-sex. It was fun while it lasted.

I guess what I was primarily trying to get across in the previous post is the placebo of human touch. How everyone needs someone to rub their back, let them release without judgment and offer them false motivation with their hands or voice in order to make them feel better. This doesn't mean that his words are lies. It means his medicine is not real. He uses his touch, his hands, to help others. Human touch is extremely powerful, and most of us don't even understand the effect it can have on the mind.

This all sounds a bit bizarre, and maybe it is, but I just wanted to get a few things across. I am not having an affair with my chiropractor. I am not picturing him undressing me as he cracks my back in three different places, and I am certainly not acting on any comment or touch that is discreetly (or indiscreetly) made. And that is that.

So now, let me rant for a minute about the kind of men that are attainable for me. The kind of men who have shown an interest and failed miserably to sweep me off my feet. Two, to be specific, recently.

First, let's discuss BSD. This is how he will be known, for a specific reason which some of you will understand, some of you won't. But for the sake of his privacy and feelings, which I do care about, he will be left anonymous.
BSD strolled into my life one rainy New York evening. I was out with biffles Brittany and Jenny. We attended a birthday party for a girl we don't know at a sports bar near Union Square. The bar had a dress code, we had a fifth of rum which we were shooting in the bathroom. Classy gals, we are. Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do in this city to survive, it's just the way it works.
I digress.
Once back in home sweet Brooklyn, me and Brittany said our adieu's and part ways, as she needed to get back to the Southside, and I needed to bypass Polish judgement in Greenpoint before it got too late. I decided to wait on the bus this particular evening, as it was raining and I had, at this point, swiveled down one-too-many shots of cheap, knock off Captain Morgan. And you thought college were the glory days...
Again, I digress.
As I reached into my gigantic bag, a staple of life here, I grabbed my Marlboro Lights and fished around for my lighter. I'm willing to bet it was green but let's not place bets here. I hear someone to my left, "You waiting for the bus?" I look over, smile and nod.
"Yes, obviously I am waiting for the bus, here at the bus stop, sir." Let's be honest, I didn't say this, but I thought it with a vengeance.
I'm not going to drag this out in detail any longer than I must. We had a nice conversation for about 30 minutes (the bus was really late that night, surprise surprise), shared a couple of cigarettes and jokes. We exchanged numbers, and he offered to walk me home in the rain quite a few times. He seemed nice enough, he was pretty funny albeit obviously nervous, and I gave him props for approaching someone he was attracted to, by himself, not in a bar.
The bus finally arrived, and as I stepped up to swipe my metrocard, he asked if he could kiss me.
Of course, I said no, gave him a hug, and said he could call me if he wanted.
He didn't call.
So, I called him. And he came to the bar I frequent, and I had a couple of friends with me as back-up. One gave me the thumbs up, the other gave me a partial thumb but, to be quite honest, her opinion matters to me less than the 2 foot rat which I'm watching scampering around my backyard. Needless to say, her track record is less than flawless.
I'm going to speed things up and bit and just say, he tried to kiss me that night, I said no. Understandable, as I was sandwiched between him and at least 100 other bar-goers who happen to enjoy karaoke Wednesdays at Matchless just as much as myself.
He also tried to kiss me the third time we hung out, sans bar and sans friends (who all met him at this pointand all loved him) and again I said no. This time, I don't know why, and it ended up being the demise of me and BSD.

The funny thing is, I did like him. And I still think about him, a month later. Post his month-long European tour with his band, post his repeatedly texting me that he was going to call, and not following through, post my wishy-washy "he's a shrimp with no goals other than guitar... but he makes me laugh" mentatlity, which I believe is what kept me from the kiss.

It's funny how we constantly complain about what we don't have. We loathe in our turmoil and become bitter, stating that it's their fault it didn't work out. "He didn't call me when he said he would." was my ultimate reason for being "so over him." But that doesn't explain why I still hope to run into him every time I go out. It doesn't explain why every time my phone beeps, alarming me of an incoming text, I get my hopes up that maybe it'll be him, wanting to buy me dinner, or just wanting to hang out. I let my insecurites with myself get in the way of letting him like me, and for the second time in my life (and hopefully the last), I sincerely regret it.

I guess it's true, when you can have him, you don't want him, and when he's gone, it consumes you...you need him for the first time, and he doesn't need you.

I'm saving boy #2, who will be known as JT, for another posting... obviously, this has gone on long enough, and I must keep you on your toes.

xxM

Shave.

I returned today with a mission. I was going to successfully shake his hand and walk away without being swayed to come back.

I failed.

He walked in sporting his comfortable smile and friendly gestures, as per usual. He seemed relaxed and at ease. He asked me where I'd been, as I have been putting off this appointment for a few weeks, knowing that I have about as much internal strength as a chicken when he's around. The way he speaks is gruelingly tempting. It isn't only his words that soothe my mind, but the actual way he asserts his voice -- his inflection and tone, the patience and kindness in his expression. It's like this incredible gift he doesn't even realize he possess.

As he stood in front of me, I mumbled under my breath that I would not be returning after this session. His smile turned to a look of annoyance, although I knew he wasn't upset, just concerned. He grabbed my hand and instructed me to get on the table.

"We'll figure it out. We can figure it out, don't worry."

The same response I've been given relentlessly for the past three months. So I give in. I succumb to the powers that are Dr. Hottie, and I take a deep breath, and let it out, as I am instructed.

I feel him place his hands on my back, and as he runs them up and down my spine, around the back of my body, over my neck, my frustrations ease away from me. For those minutes, everything in my little universe is alright.

He leans his legs against my side as he speaks to me, calms me. He stops to make a joke about my shirt being slippery. I laughed a little, and although I was listening to every word he said, all I could think about was how desperately I needed someone like him in my life. How desperately everyone needs someone like him in their lives.

My stress began to trickle away, and for a mere ten minutes, my thoughts were on him, his hands, his voice, his character. As he held my head in his hands, and brushed his thumbs over my cheeks repeatedly, I started to realize how unhealthy this healthy treatment really might be for me.

And then I stopped caring.

Tell me again how I look nice with a suntan. Tell me how you think I'm wise beyond my years, how I'm one of the most down-to-earth people you've ever met. Tell me how you think I'm funny, and how you'll kick the other doctor's ass if he hurts me again when you're on vacation. Tell me about your little dog and how it loves people, but not other dogs. Tell me how the people from my former job seem very lifeless compared to me, and how I didn't belong there anyway. Tell me how I'm going to be so successful, because you can "just feel it." Tell me about how you don't like your in-laws, and how this wedding is just getting to be really expensive. Show me again how trapped you feel in your engagement. In your ideal life.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him, and he looked down at me with a smile. He cracked a joke about how I should just think about retirement at my age. Then with a sudden jerk, my neck cracked left, then right, and it was over.

He holds my hands as he pulls me up as he always does. He lets his voice linger as he reassures me that something can be worked out.

We said our goodbyes, and I ventured towards the exit to reality-- the concrete jungle of lights and sirens that we New Yorkers call Midtown. He disappeared to the back, bounding towards his next victim.

I left the office feeling renewed and rejuvenated, as I always do. The rush he provides might not be because of his chiropractic expertise, but if something makes you feel good, why make it stop?


xxM

Heat is Temporarily Infinite

Summer in the city.

Supposedly, this is the best thing about living in New York. Street fairs, free events and cute little dogs without their sweaters. Hidden swimming pools are discovered and, all of the sudden, we are shocked by the realization: "Hey, there are numerous beaches surrounding the burroughs." Let's get a tan!
Hipster boys sport their undeniably trendy bermuda shorts and Jersey girls show their indisputably teeny minis. We rediscover our love for Pink Berry, Mr. Softee, or the organic ice cream truck on Bedford, which never fails to have a line of over-heated scenesters anticipating their single-scoop and blocking my Northbound path to Greenpoint. We laugh and we hold hands and we sit in the park and we exclaim over and over, "I LOVE SUMMER IN THE CITY."

But it's fucking hot.

For some reason, New York landlords refuse to believe that we do not live in a. 1912 and b. Sicily. I would compare the heat to the American South. But I'm from the American South, and down there, we all have central A/C. We also all own a cow, drink water from the community well, and I didn't even own my first pair of shoes until I hitchhiked my way to the big city! I'll save those stories (lies) for my future posts.

In New York, it is not uncommon to walk into a clothing store, already over-heated and soaked from your brisk 1/2 mile stroll in the 90 degree heat, only to find that this particular store is not only over-priced and under-whelming, but employees and customers alike are passing out left and right from exhaustion and heat strokes. Their faces are literally becoming burned from the reflection of the sun rays off the windows. Is it morally acceptable to make employees work on their feet for 8 hours a day, without even the meagerest, window-installed 5,000 wat unit?

I'm exaggerating. Guilty.

But it's fucking hot.

You look at your iChat, and notice that boy (who just didn't work out). His status is, "it's fucking hot in here. this sux." HA! Hate it for you, boy-who-just-didn't-work-out. Because I'm feeling rather content right now, lying on my bed, window open, cigarette in hand. The buses are loud, but comforting. The roar of the G train below me is almost dulcet, and I've gotten used to the lady who rummages through the recycling. She needs to eat too, you know. The breeze is slow but consistent, and the rain makes everything delightfully bearable. Even lovely.

Sorry boy-who-just-didn't-work-out, because although I'm hot, I'm not miserable. Like you.

I think on Sunday I'd like to go to the Brooklyn Pool Party and listen to Dan Deacon and Deerhunter play-- for free. Maybe I'll even grab a 1.00 penny-lick ice cream cone. I'll invite my friends, and we'll kiss each others cheeks and hold hands and drink cold, over-priced beer. We'll tease the cute hipster boys and label them "delicious" or "unclean". We'll scour the hoards of trendy girls and secretly wish we were wearing that dress. We'll judge the judgmental. We'll judge each other. We'll sweat and and acquire a new tan-line. Our noses will become pink in the sun. We'll dance.

At the end of the day, we'll sit down with a brown-bagged tall boy in the park. We'll complain about sunburns and landlords and various wrong-doings. We'll make headbands out of clover flowers. I'll smoke a cigarette, and lay down on the grass, and watch the kickball game which will undoubtedly be played 20 feet from my head.

And then I'll talk about how much I love summer in the city.

xxM