Sunday, March 18, 2007

Perfect Storm at The Eagle

In retrospect, I realize how close I was to total disaster tonight. All the elements of a perfect storm were present. But I had denied intstinct and ventured out to meet him.

I trudged through the grey slurpee-filled streets, arriving at The Eagle for its Sunday Night Beer Blast, which is touted as the "best beer blast in New York City" (is there another one?). My most recent ex had asked me to join him and a friend there because he felt that it would be "good for me." I should add that it took every ounce of self discipline in my body to refer to this man, er boy, as my "most recent ex." In fact, I'm a bit dizzy seeing it in print. Suffice to say, there is a lot of "there" there, which will not doubt drip into subsequent postings. Where was I?

So, I entered The Eagle slipping from cold darkness into a slightly warmer version of the same. Standing in the coatcheck line in dripping lumberjack gear, I was already contemplating a swift retreat when I was spotted. A flash of lightning, but still too distant to hear any attendant rumbling thunder. He offers to buy me a drink (we both know this means a Coke). He hands it to me, I take a sip and then actually exhale for the first time since entering. When I thank him, he tells me not to worry about it because the bartender didn't charge him, because it was only a Coke. The clouds began to darken and gather and I thought I discerned a familiar shape forming in the shifing pattern.

His friend (messed up, adorable Frederic) then arrives, a precious ray earnestly trying to shine. But the reprieve is momentary because before you can say "'Gun Oil' lube," this gaggle (there's no other way to describe them) of beards, shaved heads, pecs, tight jeans and gimme caps saunters over and starts air kissing my ex and his friend. Air kissing in The Eagle?! I promised myself a future spin in my own grave for having had to bear witness to that. It was obvious that some or all had met (read: fucked) before and they all were sniffing around evaluating weight gain, hair loss and imminent hook potential.

One (we'll call him Jeffrey) was introduced to my ex and moved between us to start a conversation with him. The ex is irresistable dimpled French, complete with the accent; he can't help it. The clouds burst; I was on outside, watching. Suddenly, it was 1979 and I was at a junior high dance in that school gymnasium during a slow dance song; I started looking for a lesbian, any lesbian. There was simultaneous lightning and thunder, with an echo sounding eerily like my ex saying "it'll be good for you."

Then I heard the Ex say, "Oh, he's from NH too" while pointing at me. The circle opened and I was let back in. Apparently I wasn't going to be picked last for dodgeball today. Jeffrey's interest bobbled between the Ex and I (his zipper and his head) for the next few minutes, but when the Ex turned to order another beer, I closed in.

Apparently, one of the other guys that had come with Jeffrey to The Eagle was his Ex of two days! Suddenly I wasn't the bravest one in the room.

Misery may love company, but two is company, not three (or six).

We left the group, went upstairs, kissed like teenagers in the back of a stolen car, felt each other up, swapped spit and stories, sad and sweet. In between bumps and grinds I actually heard the words "sweet" and "sexy." The storm had dissipated and only the slightest drizzle remained, more refreshing than annoying. Lost for a moment were the thoughts of how strong I was being; I was simply enjoying a new face, which, btw, is attached to a killer bod, that looked, asked, listened.

Then my Ex, with friend in tow, arrived upstairs, tittering like the French schoolgirls they are, sounding like raindrops being splattered to bits on the hard cement.

Jeffrey and I only made it to 2nd base, but I have his card. If I never see him again though, he will have given me a moment's shelter and warmth in the midst of roiling turbulence.

I hugged and kissed Jeffrey and my Ex "Goodnight," thanked one after the other for a fine time, and smacked each of their asses -- one rock-solid Daddy, the other boy bubble -- as I walked into the slushy night. I tread carefully, avoiding the deep slush at the intersections, and made it home, alone, with dry feet -- which is a good thing.

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