It's a long standing thing for me; I dislike leaving my beloved gay Chelsea. Bad things happen when I do. .. usually involving men who look like they ate Mel Gibson, old creepy men, and even that one that guy who didn't realize that he was gay.
Last Friday night, I was in midtown, having drinks with WC. Two guys were sitting at the bar next to us. We chatted a little bit, but then WC and I focused our attention on the man that mattered most - R, the bartender. One of the two guys got up to leave, but stopped by us on the way out, and said, reasonably enough: "Didn't get much of a chance to talk to the two of you, but wanted to say hello before I said goodbye."
Again, reasonable enough. So we chatted with him a bit when suddenly he brought up the topic of recreational viagra use. His exact words were: "I love it. It makes me as hard as a rock and I can control exactly when I come." This was quite an unexpected turn in the conversation.
I waited for WC to immolate him with a few well chosen words. But she was busy sputtering into her glass of champagne, so I turned to face him, smiled sweetly, and said "I think you need to go home now."
At that point, in a highly synchronized move (honed after years of hanging out at bars together), WC and I presented our backs to Viagra Guy and focused all our attention on the bartender. Viagra Guy stood there awhile then muttered something very Not Nice and left.
Friend Of Viagra Guy heard this entire exchange and apologized profusely for his friend and bought us another round.
Several rounds later, when Friend Of Viagra Guy asked for my card, I gave it. I have no explanation for it. Perhaps because he didn't see fit to discuss his viagra use. (You see how my standards have fallen?!?)
I forgot all about it until my phone rang tonight at 6:30PM. It was Friend Of Viagra Guy who wanted to know if I wanted to meet him for a drink RIGHT NOW. Um, hello? NOW?!? I book myself weeks in advance.
(This is a digression, but I mean really - what's up with that? I once went on a date with British Guy, and would have most likely gone on a second date except for the fact that he called me on a Friday evening at around 8PM, when I was already out with some friends, wanting to know if I wanted to meet up with him that night. Booty call? Regardless, it irritated me and was sufficient reason to ding him and ignore all further attempts at communication. Is it me? Am I just being difficult?)
I got off the phone with Friend Of Viagra Guy as politely as possible with ever useful, "I'll call you next week" and no sooner did I put my phone down, did I get a text message from The Embryologist, who wrote something inane yet boring so I deleted it.
My phone rang again and I stared at it with great suspicion before picking it up. It was SK, so I answered and told her that I was never going to leave Chelsea again. I had already IMd her about the 24 year old from Saturday night and the Random Boring French Canadian Guy from last night when I was at Solex.
At this point, SK interrupted my rant and asked, "are you ovulating?"
I've already posted about the apparently irresistible allure of the ovulating woman. So I did a quick calculation, and sure enough, I'm ovulating.
But then SK made an observation which FLOORED me.
I am quite adept at hiding out in Chelsea. But when I do venture out to a less aggressively gay neighborhood, it is pretty much always when I am ovulating.
I am simply STUNNED at the power of my subconscious biological urge to breed. Are my eggs trying to tell me something? My poor eggs. Apparently they are desperate to fulfill their mission in life and are sending out potent signals, which unfortunately, only age-inappropriate and/or creepy men respond to. If only they would send out signals that are attractive to the attractive, I might do more to heed their call than simply go somewhere far enough away to require a taxi.
But, I have to say... if/when the day comes that my subconscious biological urge to breed becomes a conscious one, I think it will be MUCH easier to just stay in Chelsea and bully Gorgeous Hunk O'Man, JF, into making a donation and sending it to me via UPS.
However, in deference to my eggs, perhaps I'll text back The Embryologist. I never did get the chance to grill him about egg harvesting/freezing for later use. (I was too busy mediating a heated debate he got into with the lesbian friend of my bartender friend. Yes, you read that correctly.)
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