Bi Boys in the Boroughs

There are certain people in my life I know I can count on. Family members who always support me, loyal friends I know will lift me up when I’m down, and boys so reliable, I could set a clock to their bi-annual attempts to get in my pants.

The cuckcoo pops out and cries “Sleep with me! Sleep with me!”

While I refuse to believe the cliché that men and women can’t be friends, these clock-work gents sure make me see where it comes from. A product of today’s “hook-up” culture, they are but another sign of the death of romance. Lazy in love often translates to other aspects of life as well. Perhaps if they had the same perseverance in their professional lives I might find them attractive enough to consider the offer.

My friend George leads the pack as the most persistent. He’s been trying for over three years now, with no success. I’ll think he’s gone for good and then around the sixth month mark, I’ll get a text or a phone call. Thing is, he’s in the theater world and a good contact. More importantly, he’s harmless, and if I’m being truthful, yes, part of me enjoys the ego boost.

A month ago I got a voicemail from him saying he was working on a new project and he was hoping to get me on board. My schedule wouldn’t allow it, and he disappeared again. Maybe he’s finally given up, I thought to myself. Last week I received a text from George: “‘New York Cliché!’ Come find me!” Ah, no he hasn’t given up. I couldn’t help but smile. Clock work. “That’s no easy task in this city. Where would I start?” I texted back.

This would perhaps seem like I was leading him on. I suppose to some degree, it’s true. I’ll admit that. But he knows my true feelings. That I know his game. A year or so ago (say, 2 attempts ago) I asked him Point Blank, over a plate of oysters at a bar in Midtown: “So, is this your bi-annual attempt to sleep with me?” He laughed, brushed it off like I was joking. We both knew I wasn’t.

“I’m around.” He replied and the conversation ended. Maybe he hadn’t given up, but his level of effort had certainly plummeted.

Last Saturday I at a bar on the Upper West Side with Miranda, Charlotte, and our friend Meaghan who was visiting town for the weekend. We were having a ladies night, sharing a the “New York Flight” and “California Flight”- samplings of beers from our current location and home state. We were gossiping over a gigantic bowl of french fries the conversation some how turning to male genitalia. Way to be a girl’s night cliché. “As long as it measures up with my high heels, I’m not going to complain,” I pitched in my two cents. “What??” My girlfriends chorused, demanding I explain. I hoisted my foot up to table level, displaying one of the pair of my strappy wedge sandals. “See? Acceptable.” I said, running down the length of my high heel. “As long as I couldn’t comfortably walk on it, I’d be teetering at least a little, we’re ok.” We all burst out giggling. At this point, the flights were drained, if you couldn’t guess. “You have to blog about this!”  Miranda declared. Done.

Our flights of beer arrive. We all preferred the California tastings to the New York ones. Outside seating is a priority as the days get shorter.

As I disengaged my foot from its awkward table-top stance, I surveyed the room. At stone-cold-sober, I am notorious for having poor volume control. Put me on the road to inebriation and I can rival car alarms. Had the entire restaurant just overheard this raunchy conversation? I glanced around, relieved my eyes connected with no one.  But they lingered over the waiter at the next table over, his back facing us. Weird…that looks like…can it be? “George!” I cried. He turned around, and sure enough, it was my bi-annual buddy himself.

I stared at him, shocked. He had told me to find him and, without any intention, I had done just that. “I can’t believe I find you!” I said giving him a hug, “This is crazy!” “It’s meant to be,” he said, “You look great.” “Thanks,” I said and introduced him to my friends. He couldn’t stay and chat as it was a busy Saturday night, but he soon sent over an order of fried pickles- the specialty appetizer.

Well, now he’s got me. How often does fate serve up such a perfectly timed, chance encounter? It’s a sign from the universe. His 3 year relentlessness may just pay off. The powers that be clearly want me to give George a chance.

About New York Cliche

NYC lifestyle blog by Mary Lane. Events, adventures, epic mistakes, dating, life, humor. A 20-something trying to make it (and make out) in the city of dreams.

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