Life in Ink and Footsteps

Yeah, I know. What a cliché. But let me get into it. I haven’t been meeting up with Sir MagicalCarpet much anymore after he kicked me out of his apartment like an unwanted puppy. It was all weird, and I was annoyed by it. So I tried what every scorched woman has tried before. I gave an ultimatum. “You treat me better, or we are done.” His answer: “We can’t break up if we never dated.” Ouch. So, I was not only heartbroken but humiliated once again. That was a little too much to handle for my fragile heart and ego. Hard to say which one was suffering more. Ego. Definitely that one. Not so hard after all. But it is important to say, that this really was the end of this whole situationship with this man.

Fucking finally.

And so I spent a week mostly lying in bed, eating chocolate. Not going to the gym, not going for coffee or lunch with the girls, no walks by myself. Just the bare minimum I had to do, then back to my room again. Insert the visual of Penny from The Big Bang Theory while being addicted to online gaming. Yeah, it was kinda gross. And for a moment, it felt like this was going to be the rest of my life. Until our Danish beauty S. called on a Friday afternoon. “It’s time to put your shit together. Go take a shower; you need it. Put on makeup and some hooker dress. We’re going out, and I don’t give a fuck if you want to or not. You’re coming. I’ll pick you up at 10 pm.” And so I got out of bed and followed her orders while grumbling and being bitter. Who wants to go out? Why would I do that? Nobody wants me; I am just a miserable, chubby creature. Yes, I was feeling very sorry for myself. You know what’s fun about life? Nights like this are usually the most memorable ones we have. And this one was no exception.

We went to Rockville Center, I put my foot down against going to the city. I was so not ready for another parade of ultra-hot people while feeling like shit. So Long Island it was. We parked the car and walked around for a bit, looking for a place to have some fun. We walked into some sports bar, and got a beer. It was crowded with middle-aged men in jerseys—I guess some game was on. And boy, it was boring. All the men cheering and cursing, worried only about the score and their beers. I was ready to call it a night and go home. But here’s the thing about S.: When she decides on something, she’s pretty much unstoppable. You better just tag along with her. And that’s how we found ourselves in some local dance bar instead of in bed. Because she said we’ll have fun. So we did.

This place was packed. Great music. People dancing and laughing. It seemed like The Spot if you wanted to meet someone and have a good time with no strings attached. Which I didn’t care about, but I love to dance. I always did. Feeling like shit about myself had a pro—I didn’t care what others thought of me. It couldn’t be any worse. And so I danced my heart out as if nobody was watching—they probably weren’t. And it was liberating.

You know how it goes next. We went to the bar for drinks, I looked up, scanned the room, and on the other side of the bar, I saw a man. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Tall, in great shape, gray hair on his temples, and tattoos down his arms. He wore a white button-down shirt and jeans. He was freakin‘ hot. He smiled at me and winked. I blushed and turned my face away from him, embarrassed that I had been caught staring. While I was trying to inform S. about the hottie, two shots of tequila arrived—that was our choice of poison during our time in the US. The bartender informed us that they were from that gentleman. We nodded to him and did the shot. And bam, another one. Same scenario repeated. So, S., the badass she was, just said we had to go thank him properly and literally dragged me there.

And that’s how we met Mr. B. At least I did—my bestie was more interested in his sons, who seemed to be our age, maybe a few years older. Also, do you go to a bar with your parent? We chatted, flirted, and it was all exciting, except for the fact that we were constantly interrupted by people who wanted to shake his hand, talk to him, thank him, and flirt with him. I started to think he might be some kind of local celebrity. To stop this unending stream of people, he took us to the rooftop section of the bar. That made a huge impression on both of us. The rooftop was 25 and older. We were both freshly 21, but he only said, “Don’t worry about it” and took us in. The security greeted him by his last name, didn’t check us at all, and wished us all a pleasant night. We both started to think that something was going on with this dude. But honestly, who cared? I felt alive, and it was exactly what I needed after that dumping.

The rooftop was cool, we had free drinks, and there were almost no women who could compete with us. We were by far the youngest there and felt attractive above anything else – I know, I know. But I was 21, don’t judge me too harshly. We danced and danced and danced. I flirted with this gentleman and was having a wonderful time. Suddenly, he excused himself—he had some business to attend to. At that moment, I should have known what was going on. I mean, who does any kind of business at 1 am on a Friday night. But I was really naïve and inexperienced, so I shrugged it off and danced some more. I had no idea how long he was gone, until out of nowhere he appeared again and we danced. They played Despacito. Because of course they did—it feels like nothing else was playing during those summer months. And let me tell you, he was a phenomenal dancer. I never had a partner who could move like that. It was amazing. And sexy.

So when he asked if I wanted to see his strip club, I said of course! So he called his driver to pick us up. I was too drunk to think about what I was doing, but my Nordic beauty wasn’t. And she didn’t like the idea of getting into a car with who knows who and going who knows where. But I was adamant. After all, she wanted me to go out and have fun, no? I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? Yeah, yeah, I know. Not the first time my inebriated brain pulled a number like this. So, into the strip club, we went. First time for me.

He left us alone for a bit—some business—so we drank some more and watched the show. When he came back, my curiosity got the better of me, and so I asked, “Where do you keep disappearing to all the time?” And he just laughed at me like I had cracked the best joke and said, “I sell coke. Would you like some?” Ooooh, now I get it… It finally made sense. He’s a dealer. Also, no thank you. I am not a big drug fan. The most I did was weed, and we all heard how that ended.

At this point, I was tired, really drunk, and ready to call it a night. He offered me to spend the night with him, and I was intrigued—he was as good at kissing as he was at dancing. But in the end, I decided against it. I was barely standing on my own feet, not to mention my period was just ending—talk about terrible timing—so I took the high ground like the responsible young adult I was and went to pick up S. from the bar. Honesty, it was the period. I absolutely would have spent the rest of the night with him otherwise. I am still disappointed about it, eight years later, I am sure it would have been awesome. What? I am an adult woman in touch with her sexuality.

But back to the strip club. After getting the Nordic hottie from the bar, it was time to go home. And here came the tricky part: Neither one of us knew where we were, where our car was, and I was barefoot. Don’t worry—I found my shoes, don’t ask me why I wasn’t wearing them in the first place. Maybe my feet were hurting? Somehow, we got back to Rockville Center—I would guess by Uber, but I’m hazy on the details—walked around trying to find the car, and then decided to drive home.

Five minutes into the drive, we both agreed that it was stupid and irresponsible, since we were still drunk. So we pulled over at the nearest diner and ordered food and gallons of cola. I don’t know how long we sat there or when exactly we decided to drive home. But we finally checked the time while snacking on food. Almost 5:30 in the morning.

Needless to say, I was cured of my depression.

Song? Obvious.
Luis Fonsi – Despacito