A Tale of Architects(este cuento en
español)
Sunday, long night out with Brian. I go pick him up at his restaurant on Prince Street, where I get cornered by an aging bald architect friend of a friend. He bores me to death while trying to touch me every chance he gets. Gross. I’m about to throw my beer in his face when Brian whisks me off to Lotus, where we squeeze into a booth with Patrice and his unpleasant Armani suit and his call girl entourage. He’s a wealthy Haitian who was probably a Tonton Macoute in his former life. He pours us champagne and tells me in his heavy French accent, “You are dangerous…give me your number before you leave.” Some gangster pal of his caresses my bare shoulders too many times. I tell him to back off so he complains to Patrice who scolds me along the lines of “This is my friend so-and-so.” I say that’s fine but he can’t touch me and Patrice gets visibly annoyed. Gross. Brian takes me to Bungalow 8 his members only club where he introduces me to James, a colorless version of another boy I still miss in spite of his pathetically clumsy lies. He gives me some of his low rent blow then invites me to his house. I say “I don’t need to get laid tonight” and he acts all scandalized and I tell him to stop being such a hypocrite. He asks for my number and I give it to him, no idea why.
Monday night, party at the Tribeca Grand. A weird mix of VIP lawyers, designers, hipster politicians, models, stockbrokers and a smattering of rock starlets.
Nicollette introduces me to an architect friend of hers who says his boss Rem Koolhaas let him design the new Prada store. I find him zero attractive so I try to put him off with “I’m a Miu Miu girl” but he ends up hooking me with his conversation anyway. He invites me to Sway, where my favorite DJ, Baby Blue, is spinning. This makes me like him a little better so I accept. I’m pretty drunk and I immediately lose myself in the arms of a really hot lipstick lesbian and the architect goes nuts. He tries to break me off from my princess but there’s no way. He has no place left to go but out the door. However he calls Nicollette for my number and starts busting my balls. Finally I agree to let him take me out for the best sushi of the moment, which is at Blue Ribbon. Out of nowhere he asks if I want a boyfriend and tells me he’s looking for a relationship. Due to his silly questions I’m back to not liking him that much, but in the cab for mysterious reasons I kiss him & it turns me on. I agree to go to his apartment where he shows me his paintings, which are pretty damn good. Talent being an aphrodisiac, we end up in the sack. Once he has me pinned under his big heavy body he asks, “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re very trusting.” I flash on my complicatedly murdered corpse starring in an episode of CSI New York. Get out now, before it’s too late? But no, by this time my brain has stopped functioning. He’s very good in bed. It’s a trap.
On Tuesday James calls, I barely remember him. He invites me for a drink at Balthazar. I agree for want of a better plan and besides, I love that place. James is sitting at the bar with his posse, all slaves at the same literary agency. They ask me stupid questions like “Are you an actress?” I am clearly the object of some hidden plot hatched in their sinister male minds but I don’t give a toss so I dig in to the oysters, which at Balthazar are amazing. “Harlan is on his way, he wants to see you,” says James casually, adding that he introduced us at Bungalow 8. It doesn’t ring a bell. A boy arrives & I'm still clueless, but he is utterly glam: wild black hair, very cool suit. Nick Cave from way back, minus the heroin. He turns out to be an architect. He sits next to me and the posse of agents drops off my radar. Then they disappear for real and Harlan loads me onto his huge shiny black BMW and takes me to Missy Elliott’s birthday party at Lot 61, where he plies me with his super deluxe cocaine. Now we’re talking. We make out passionately in every corner in between long heady discussions about everything under the sun. He asks for my number and I'm glad to give it up. He starts taking me out to fabulous events all over town. The nights we don’t see each other he calls me for long intimate bedtime chats. His strategy and everything about him, impeccable. I start to feel comfortable, wanted and happy. Another trap.
Thank god I gave my number to the chick from Sway. She’s no architect, but she does happen to be the perfect toy.
Debajo del Mercer había un bolichito, y en ese bolichito pinchaba un pésimo pero trágicamente atractivo DJ con el que estuve obsesionada meses y meses y semanas y semanas, coast to coast LA to Chicago etc. Vamos a escucharlo una vez más y ahí un tano divino logra desviarme de mi blanco primario. Dentro de un par de vodka tonics me doy cuenta de que estoy involucrada en una íntima y placentera charla con un fascista. Uno de verdad. Se trata de la nueva generación: esos bichos perfectamente mimetizados que rechazan el antisemitismo, son cultos y tienen toda la onda. Mi indignado corazón de comunista late más fuerte. Suben las barricadas, vuelan los molotovs retóricos. Me dice: Nunca imaginé que me iba a gustar una chica de izquierda. Le confieso: Nunca pensé que podría gustarme un facho de mierda. El beso es electrizante, el sexo mucho más. Antes de volverse a la patria me deja 1. un moretón en el muslo, para que cuando duela piense en él 2. toda su info y 3. una invitación a pasar el verano en su barco. Me da pena decirlo: lo extrañé.
%2017.34.13.png)
.JPG)
