I had a magnificent walk of shame the following morning. And I didn’t even feel like a cheap slut, particularly since I had spent the night in a fabulous four-floor townhouse in the West Village, dry-humping into that sleepy hour where night bleeds seamlessly into morning.
Ricky had failed to mention that he lived in a friggin’ castle the few times we had hooked up. He braved the G train into Brooklyn to my little shithole corner of the world to desecrate my air mattress each time, so I had no inkling of what awaited me. I understood his reasoning, though. After all, this house was his and his wife’s and I was the first piece of trade he had invited there—which obviously filled me with a bit of pride. Whether out of my own naïveté or all consuming self-involvement, it didn’t bother me that we were hooking up in the same bed that he had shared with her for X number of years. The thought didn’t even cross my mind until recently.
Tim retired as soon as we got back to Ricky’s house. How convenient. Though, we had already decided that no hanky panky would occur; that’s what Saturday was for. I would have the shithole corner of the world to myself, the roomies all out of town. So he would come over. Instead, we stayed up talking, making out, doing more coke and watching “Project Runway.” And speaking of which: seriously, Jeffrey? I hate that fucking douche. The details of our conversation have since disappeared from my memory--all I can remember was that it was fun. But after a few hours, we decided to turn in. Sleep was a foolish idea, however, as neither one of us was tired and before I could properly adjust my hip, we were dry humping. Followed by cuddling. Followed by more dry humping. Unfortunately, there was no wet humping denouement, but what can ya do? I got up to leave at 7 so I could run home and get ready for work. Just like that, our first date was finally over. I thought it a resounding success. But I might have misinterpreted something along the way.
Ricky had already informed me that he might not be able to make our date to the Met, so it came as no surprise to me when he cancelled later that day. What did come as a surprise was the identity of his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He had mentioned the night before that he was an actor and I remembered the name of one his movies, so being the crack detective I am, I went looking for him on IMDB. Turns out he was a minor actor, but he had some success as a writer/director, having been nominated for the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance for his first film, which coincidentally starred his wife—whom I actually recognized. She’s a considerably more successful actress, having starred in two successful shows and a good number of films and even getting nominated for an Emmy a few years back. And we’re talking primetime here, kids. When I told my friends, they couldn’t believe it, but I just chalked it up to the constant randomness my life throws at me. This time it was thrown all up in a bitch’s face.
Saturday came around and Ricky text’d me that he might not be able to make it to our little rendezvous. I didn’t think anything of it. He had gone out of town with Tim and I figured he was caught up doing whatever have you. Then he text’d me again, confirming that he wouldn’t be able to make it at all. I was disappointed, though not devastated. I still expected him to call eventually, expected us to go out on another date. Hell, at least expected us to get in one more shag. I stopped expecting about a week ago. Although, I can’t bring myself to erase his number from my phone. Maybe he’ll call, maybe not. But I’d at least like to know it’s him so I can have the satisfaction of not answering…I shouldn’t answer right?
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