So I'm taking off to NYC in less than 6 hours to go to my sister's wedding. As soon as I finish writing this column, I'm packing my bags, taking a shower and calling a cab. I'm freaking pissed. Do you know how it feels to get stood up for a trans-Atlantic date? No, probably not. Well, here let me tell you.
Ever since going out to Karma Bar two weeks ago, Mike and I have been getting kind a close. Basically, we've seen each other for fourteen nights straight. Somewhere around day number eight, I had this crazy idea pop into my head. This guy might be a little slow and we don't have much to talk about, but god is he a great lay and we never ever have any problems. Mike's always has this weird way of being subservient without losing his masculinity. I'm not sure how it works, actually.
Anyway, we were lying in bed and I thought, "I haven't bought tickets yet...maybe I'll ask him to join me?" I never liked my sister's friends and her fiance's family is even worse. Mike would add a little color to the scene. We'd bone like jack rabbits everywhere. In the dressing rooms as we were getting fitted for our wedding attire and while everyone was busy shaking hands, we'd sneak of into the synagogue's bathroom, or better yet some space high up near the dome...
He was into it and even offered to pick up the tab for our tickets. His secretary would take care of it and we'd fly business class. Sweet. Mile High Club, here we come!
I was sure we were gonna have a great time in just a few days. But I should've known better. A few days later we were out boozing hard at 30/7 and stumbled into a new club that just opened next door. It was cleverly named TOO DRUNK TO FUCK, you know after that Dead Kennedy's song.
The place was all right. Basically it's the same sort of deal as 30/7. It's expensive, has a glitzy Manhattan lounge wannabe interior, thirty-something's upper management types and a bunch of cute girls on the hunt for money
I got back from the bathroom and Mike was sitting up this that stupid couch slash bed contraption. He looked uneasy. Sure enough, he started blurting out that he was sorry, spontaneously, without any explanation. It looked and sounded pathetic. People started giving him bad looks. "Sorry, sorry and more sorry," is all that came out of his fucking mouth. It took him a full ten minutes to own up to it, but finally he did it. The fucking bastard knew he couldn't go to NYC with me the day after he said yes, but didn't know how to tactfully tell me. And not only was standing me up, but he didn't even get the tickets he promised. I was too drunk to give a shit. I walked out and had his driver take me straight to my apartment.
I woke up late in the afternoon, opened my eyes and guess what was on my pillow? A bouquet of roses, a roundtrip business class ticket to JFK and a note saying I'd be picked up for the airport. I smiled and then -- woke up again! But this time, there were no tickets, no roses and fucking note. I had to dish out a grand for the tickets.
This issue is my catharsis. But next issue, its bitch from hell payback time, asshole.
Too Drunk To Fuck
Address: Petrovsky Blvd., 30/7
Open from noon to late