This is what the definition-of-hot-for-euro Frenchman asked me, and I answered sure, no, wait, yes of course, maybe invigorated by the gleam off his gold-plated canine, or that I was misplaced in Brooklyn for the night, and Guns’n’Bombs was kicking the second set and everyone was so young, or Danish, sometimes you just can’t tell, and then he asked me did I like to kiss on the mouth hard like he did (his English was not quite as good as he would have liked)?
Friday means another social experiment with my girlfriend so we danced for six hours in the dark, a rotating circle of people falling in and out with the beats and us snapping pictures in the bathroom, our hands slipping, the disposable camera clattering on the floor. The refrain, go hard or go home, so we looked ridiculous, poseurs, posturing in sweatbands, onesies, short dresses, neon, and it was the apex of our Brooklyn attractiveness, and we kidded later that we could not go out again for fear of ever falling short, never matching the pheromonal frenzy and the unce unce unce.
And when I was approached by the most ambiguously beautiful creature I had ever seen, I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl, what age, what sexual preference, what ethnicity, and it turned out he was a boy and his name was Jonas and he was interested in girls, possible in me if only I would say the right thing, and he could tell my outfit had come from American Apparel and that was good and he narrowed his eyes and tossed his long, straight, black hair from the horizontal sweatband that kept it off of his God-like brow and he leaned in and his hands were so elegant and they touched my neck without my permission and he asked, did I work there, and I laughed because I thought it was a joke and said no, did he, and he did not smile at all and said yes, he was an AA model and also some sort of director of corporate marketing and he looked me up and down and said it was a shame that I didn’t do what he did and then he walked away.
Still, I would say we ended the evening on a high note. This is where I met my nineteen year old among others, this is where our photos were snapped for Guns’n’Bombs personal use, we hoped at least, this is where resumes would be judged better if they were capped with mullets and this is what will provide stories where I sort of hang my head for the rest of the month.
Friday means another social experiment with my girlfriend so we danced for six hours in the dark, a rotating circle of people falling in and out with the beats and us snapping pictures in the bathroom, our hands slipping, the disposable camera clattering on the floor. The refrain, go hard or go home, so we looked ridiculous, poseurs, posturing in sweatbands, onesies, short dresses, neon, and it was the apex of our Brooklyn attractiveness, and we kidded later that we could not go out again for fear of ever falling short, never matching the pheromonal frenzy and the unce unce unce.
And when I was approached by the most ambiguously beautiful creature I had ever seen, I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl, what age, what sexual preference, what ethnicity, and it turned out he was a boy and his name was Jonas and he was interested in girls, possible in me if only I would say the right thing, and he could tell my outfit had come from American Apparel and that was good and he narrowed his eyes and tossed his long, straight, black hair from the horizontal sweatband that kept it off of his God-like brow and he leaned in and his hands were so elegant and they touched my neck without my permission and he asked, did I work there, and I laughed because I thought it was a joke and said no, did he, and he did not smile at all and said yes, he was an AA model and also some sort of director of corporate marketing and he looked me up and down and said it was a shame that I didn’t do what he did and then he walked away.
Still, I would say we ended the evening on a high note. This is where I met my nineteen year old among others, this is where our photos were snapped for Guns’n’Bombs personal use, we hoped at least, this is where resumes would be judged better if they were capped with mullets and this is what will provide stories where I sort of hang my head for the rest of the month.
4 comments:
and you should have responded "do you like pretentious brooklynites?" and then pointed him and his headband to the dancefloor
You should have told him, "You're fat. Fuck off."
Very lovely post!
I hate it when people get the last word...especially when they're wrong! I think you're every bit as fabulous as an AA model - even better, because I know, just from being an avid reader of your blog, you've got heart and brains. I would also say "courage", but then it would be getting a little too Wizard of Oz-zy, dont you think?
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