Saturday, August 8, 2009

A soap

My life is a soap.

Things have been pretty hectic around here, witch explains my absence from the interwebs.

First, Scarlet told me she wouldn’t be working with me at the newspaper anymore. It wouldn’t make much sense for me to keep going, without her or with someone new. This job is fun only because my partner is my very good friend. So by the end of august, I won’t be a columnist anymore.

This is a big page in my life that’s being turned. I don’t think I fully realize it right now, but it’s the end of an era.

Second: well apparently, I’m gonna own my own bar.

My former bosses at The Drinkery, who became friends over the years, are opening a new Drinkery in the old part of town, a now very trendy spot. They offered me to become partner.

My best friend and all time greatest bar partner Harry is joining in as well. And so is Elpy, a very cool young bartender. Harry will be MaitreD/Sommelier and will join us behind the bar when the dinner service is over.

Sure I’m only gonna own a very small fraction of this establishment, but what an establishment it is!

We’re talking about a 180 places restaurant, with a 275 people occupancy license. The bar is 50 feet long and can accommodate 5 bartenders, each with its own work station. The bar is 70 years old and made from solid oak and so is the incredible stairway that leads to the mezzanine. Old stone walls, ridiculously high ceilings… we’re redesigning everything. It’s supposed to open September 4th but I’m somewhat doubtful about that date.

I’ve said it before, working as a bartender is a great way to meet lost of good looking women. But working as a bartender behind your own bar brings you to a whole different league, especially when your bar happens to be one of the nicest spot in town, if not the nicest. In about a month, fun and intelligent models will throw themselves at me by the dozen.

Enough about that, you’ll have plenty of time to hear about the Drinkery.

Third, Mary had a motorcycle accident. She’s fine.

I mean, she broke her middle finger and lost quite a bit of skin on her leg due to very high dry friction. But I still say fine cause when you fall off your speedbike at 90 miles per hour, a broken finger is a blessing.

Yeah so we started seeing each other a lot, but I understood pretty fast that it was never gonna happen. Sure we were getting closer, she was getting more and more affectionate, many people at the Club thought we were going out together, but she just doesn’t have casual sex. Ever.

Blondie was like that too. It’s a new kind of girl I discovered at The Club.

The too pretty girl.

She’s always been the hot girl, always dated the hot guy, for long periods of time. Every guy who sees her systematically wants to jump her right there on the spot. Looking like she does and dressing like she does, people would love to call her a slut. So she always made a point of not being one. She never dates casually and certainly never has one nights. She vets potential boyfriends like vice-presidential candidates; they have to go through a ridiculously long sexless probation period. And when she’s alone and needs a man, she calls one of her ex’s. Anything to prevent from carving another notch on her bedpost. I doubt that more than four guys saw her naked.

Sure I could have slept with her, I guess, but I would have needed to drag her along, to lie, to be a jerk… to play her. And that’s not something I do. Plus you can never have to many ridiculously hot female friends. They, themselves, always have many hot friends.

But after her accident, a guy went through that long probation period. He was present at the accident and took good care of her. He was actually a pretty good guy, smart, with his life in order. I met him for a few hours at the hospital after Mary’s crash.

Last Saturday, before work, they had kissed for the first time - yeah, she came in to work, five days after her crash, she’s crazy but she needs the money. While we were setting up our bar, she was telling me how she was opening up to a guy for the first time in a long while and how it scared her.

At last call, Mary checked her cell to see if the guy had sent her a text message. In place, she had received this message, by a mutual friend of them.

I’m sorry to tell you this, but John is no longer with us. He passed away at 10 tonight in a motorcycle accident.

Mary managed to count her cash before she had a complete breakdown. I went home with her. Her friend who sent the text message and who was there at the accident was waiting for her. He explained in details what happened. Basically the guy rear ended a car with his speedbike at 135 mph on the highway. At this velocity, Newton’s laws aren’t on your side. He knew the risks, he played dumb, it’s hard to feel sorry for the guy, but I was really sorry for my friend.

We finally got to bed at 6. Fell asleep by 6:30.

At 6:45, my phone rang. Anyone who knows me knows you can’t call me in the morning, especially not on a Sunday, and most certainly not at 6:45.

I answer. It’s the police. They’re looking for my father. My grandmother is having her last breaths and my father’s family is desperately trying to reach him.

Oh and did I mention an aunt had died just a few days earlier.

Yeah my life is a soap. But me, I’m fine.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Typical 3rd floor

Well. Apparently, Blondie won't be a returning character on this blog, she was fired I think. I'll call her tomorrow to check, but she wasn't there Friday or last night.

Last night was ok, really just ok. No flirting at all (typical 3rd floor), but I was working with Cindy, a fun and obviously gorgeous girl. At first, I was with Jessica, but she was pissed to work with me and asked to be changed. Well, actually, it didn't have anything to do with me, she just wanted to work with her friend Stephany. I was all for it! I don't mind Jess, but I hate working with a pissed off barmaid, that's a guaranteed shitty night.

Things are evolving with Mary, slowly but still... Every time she's called to work, she texts me to know if we work together. Unfortunately, we haven't since the last time, a month ago. But we're getting closer. Tonight, she stayed a while after we were both done, just to chat with me. Normally, we all get the hell out as soon as we can, but I had to wait. Pascale was too drunk to get home and wanted to sleep on my couch and she wasn't done counting her cash.

So Mary stayed a bit to chat with me. I then went to the pizza place next door with her, she held my arm the entire way.

When we got out the pizza place, Pascale still hadn't called me, so Mary invited me to sit in her car to wait (it was incredibly cold for a fourth of july). I declined, telling her she was lucky she didn't have to wait and that she should take full advantage of that. This wasn't leading anywhere and I was getting tired and pissed at Pascale for making me wait, I was not in very chatty mood.

It's funny, cause we're getting closer and I know she likes me in a way, but there is no flirt whatsoever. She isn't the flirty type, though. But then again, I made the mistake early on to tell her about my "friend" who's traveling the world for a year… (I'll tell you all about her soon) So maybe she thinks I’m simply not an option. I need to fix this.

She’s so incredibly pretty, I still can’t believe it.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Ain't this world fabulous?

Last night at the club was fun. I was filling in for someone. So instead of being in my usual spot on the 3rd floor, I was alone at a bar on the second floor.

I often complain that ever since I started working on the 3rd floor, I hardly have any interactions with girls. On the 3rd floor, it’s just booths with no dance floor, so only big groups hang out there. When a cute girl comes to my bar, she orders, smile and leave. Not once, in the last … what 6 months, did I ever have two or three girls, just hanging out at my bar.

For instance, last week, there were those two cute girls, who came to my bar to order Malibu pineapple. The cutest one was quite flirty. They stayed for a minute and said : Oh we love you, we’ll come back a little later. When they came back, it was closing time, the lights were on, and two of their guy friends were waiting, a few steps behind. Not a cool setting.

But yesterday, I was on the second floor, where the HUGE dance floor is.

The very first four girls to enter the club go straight to the dance floor, two of them get up on the speakers to dance on the stripper pole. From where I am, there is no doubt these girls have insane bodies. They look like they’re cute but it’s hard to see, with all the flashing lights.

Later on, two of them come to order at my bar. The cutest one, the one I had spotted earlier in the night is Claudia, the flirty Malibu-drinking girl from last week.

They order, we flirt a bit. One of them orders another drink. She seems to be missing a buck or two, so she’s searching her purse for no more than 15 seconds, when some random girl, with HUGE tits and a somewhat white trash accent asks me how much that girl’s drink is. 7$ I tell her ( I figure she wants to order the same thing), she hands me a 10$, leaves the change on the bar and smiles at the two girls.

Now I’ve seen guys do that to girls more than once, but a girl who just pays for some other girl she doesn’t even know, just like that; that’s a first.

They started hanging the three of them at my bar, ordering shots. The girl with the huge tits – all right, I dunno her name, but let’s call her Tracy, it just seems more appropriate – so Tracy keeps paying. And she’s leaving ridiculous tips, sometimes near the 100% !

My busboy seems to know her, so I ask. Turns out she’s an escort (well she sure tips like an escort). I figure she came to the club alone and wanted some cute friends for the night, so she simply bought them. Ain’t this world fabulous?

Later on, Claudia is at my bar.

Claudia: So what are you willing to do to get a date with me?
Me: What? You mean like I’m the one who has to get YOU? Really?
Claudia: Well actually, I’d like to go on a date with you.

She entered her number in my phone while I poured shots, for the two of us.

I have a date next week! Sweet.

Monday, June 15, 2009

That makes more sense

Last night at The Club was fun.

Apparently, Blondie is no longer my partner. I’m with a new girl every time now. Last night, I was working with Mary, a barmaid I find incredibly pretty. She looks classy and elegant, though she really isn’t! She has fake boobs, which I hate, but hers are still human sized.

I played my usual nice but indifferent attitude. We’ll see where this goes, but so far, The Club has never proven a source of disappointment in that matter..

A girl I really like came to the club tonight. I’m not even sure she knew I was working there, she looked as surprised as I was. She works with me at my teaching job, she’s a beautiful medical student, smart, funny, flirty, witty. Her name is Claire. I always engage in flirting at work, but I still keep my distances. I’d probably fall in love with a girl like that.

Next Friday is our end of the school year party and we’re all supposed to go to The Club. We’ll see how things are in a non-working environment.

I was at The Drinkery with her good friend Julie just earlier this week. Julie is a friend of Chuck, Brad’s brother, and she was there with him. She was worried she wouldn’t know anyone at the party.

Julie: I don’t have any friends there. You have plenty of friends.
Me: actually, you have Claire, I only have Brad (he’s actually our boss at this job)
Julie: But you always talk to people
Me: yes, but we don’t exactly hang out on week-ends, are you really that antisocial?
Me: Don’t worry. I promise I’ll be your best friend there for the whole night, it’ll be great.
Julie: Watch me follow you around everywhere.
Me: Is that a promise?

Ok that was slick, but that’s not exactly keeping my distances. I made friends with Julie, Claire’s best friend. And I framed the situation so that I’ll actually be making Julie a favor, by hanging out with them all night. Bad me.

So yeah, it was a little funny to see Claire in that environment. She’s used to seeing me with kids and there I was, flipping bottle next to a model with fake tits.

Funny anecdote: At one point in the night, one of the managers comes and gives me one of those little plastic tubes, in which they sell individually wrapped flavored cigarillos. It’s unsealed. “Here, a customer gave me this”.

Because that’s what I normally use these things for, I assume it’s a joint. Yé!

I’m in the office with another manager and Mary, counting my cash at the end of the night, when I decide to check that thing out.

I open it and in my hand falls a tiny bit of chalk, the exact size of the bits teachers used to throw at me when I was a kid. I’m thinking, now why would someone give me a piece of chalk. I touch it and it collapses.

Oh… it’s cocaine. That makes more sense.

I have NO IDEA how much that is, how much it’s worth or anything about it. I hate coke, I despise it and I don’t touch that shit.

Being me, I still kept it. It’s tucked away, somewhere safe. Just in case someone comes over and wants to do some blow, a good host would never refuse that.

Does your boss hand you over cocaïne, just like that, thinking he'll make you happy? My life is weird.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Could have been worst

I haven't written much this week. I got a new phone, the HTC Magic and all of my "online" time has pretty much been spent on setting up the phone (enter all 150 contact numbers, set up email accounts, download programs, setup rss reader...).

It's pretty much an iphone except it's better cause it's no iphone. I fucking hate macs. The only real difference, is that if I go to your place and you got a song I like on your computer, I can just put in it in and listen to it right away. My phone is not locked up with my itunes at home (which is good, cause I don't have iTunes and certainly don't want it). I know there are ways around this, but that's what I hate about macs and ipods in particular, they're specifically engineered to be less convenient than they could be.

I guess I have to find new music to listen to now. Some old Joni Mitchell or Cohen that I know by heart is just fine as background music when I invite a girl over, but blasted at full volume while I'm in the subway or on my bike... meh.

Speaking of bike, I finally got around to go get my bike. Last Saturday, I took my bicycle to go work at The Club. It's pretty much downhill all the way which makes this idea even more stupid. Like there was ANY way I'd get on that bike at 5 in the morning, tired and still a little drunk. The bicycle stayed right where it was and I shared a cab with Blondie.

It was cold and rainy all week, so I never got a change to get my bike back. It's like there was a curse. Thursday night, I went out with Scarlett in this trashy gay club, in the village. They had completely redone the place and they had invited us to check it out. I was supposed to take my bike to get home, but it started raining HARD just as we got out the club.

Anyhow, so I finally got around to retrieve my bike. And I had my first face plant. It could have been worst, WAY worst. It was at low speed, I was manoeuvring through immobilized cars in traffic and I made a turn a little too sharp and pulled on the front brake a little too hard. I flew right over the handle bars.

My left wrist is sore and so is my right knee, but besides that I'm ok. I completely fucked up my rear shifter though. It was bent across the wheel, I had to bend it back using my hands, so that I could still ride it to the bike shop. Some nice woman with a kid in a stroller offered me a wet wipe she had in a Ziploc bag to get all the grease off my hands.

I doubt they'll be able to save that shifter, but when I think of my friend who just had a rear taxi door flung open on his path and who broke a finger, I think I'm pretty lucky.


Oh and there's this nice little video I took in the park the other day with my newfound camera that I want to post here. But I need to edit it a bit (mainly cut the beginning off) and I need to get familiar with adobe premiere.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

A cheap and fun night

Tonight, I went to dinner with Brad at this restaurant in Yuppie Town. This part of town is quite literally a suburb but for yuppies.

It’s only condos and townhouses, it’s located near downtown, but it’s a suburb in the sense that there was nothing there 25 years ago. It’s not a part of town that grew organically, it’s just a huge upscale development project with a grocery store and a few restaurants. And it’s completely secluded; one road to get it, one road to get out.

That’s where Brad actually grew up. His family moved there like 12 years ago, when Yuppie town was barely blossoming.

And that restaurant was on his way home. I might have passed in front of it a thousand times and it never occurred to me to go there. It always looked pretty sketchy. There were hardly ever more than 5 or 6 cars in the parking lot, but they were always S class Mercedes or Bentleys or Porshes.

But tonight, I actually had to go.

Turns out, my boss at The Club also owns this restaurant.

I have many bosses at The Club. A 3-story, multimillion dollar club in the trendy part of town is never owned by only one person. Now I’ve never looked at the shareholder’s chart, but I’m pretty sure that Mohamed, a 45 years old bonafide gangster, owns the bulk of it all. By all, I mean the 3 different multimillion dollar clubs. Oh, and a stripclub also.

So Mohamed owns this restaurant. It totally makes sense. I had actually heard of the legendary Mohamed who owns this place, when I was working in another restaurant nearby. I heard he once literally threw out bitchy customers (and they’re legions in Yuppie Town), cause they were condescending with their waiters.

Yeah so tonight, I had to come here.

I don’t know exactly what’s the point behind those nights, but once in a while, the staff at The Club have to go out altogether to some restaurant. It’s normally a restaurant owned by the friends of our bosses or owned by our bosses like tonight. And it’s always free.

The dinner is always free and the wine is always something like “wine store price + 5$” (normally, the markup here on wine at the restaurant is around 250%... sometimes more).

I guess the whole point is to launder money… and it might win you a few new customers as a bonus.

So Brad came with me, cause I also had to bring someone. I wasn’t sure he’d be up for it.

Now I know that for some of you, a paid dinner at a somewhat upscale restaurant is not such a burden. Especially when you’ll be spending the night with amazingly hot barmaids.

But these hot barmaids, as pretty and attractive as they might be, they come from and live in a totally different universe than Brad and I.

Every Saturday, at The Club, I meddle with these utmost superficial people with whom I don’t have anything in common, the beautiful people, and I get paid awesome money to do so. But I don’t know if my friends are into such a sociological experience.

And don’t get me wrong, I say they’re superficial, but most girls I work with at the club are great persons, considerate and thoughtful, most guys are fun and trustworthy, I love them all. I don’t want to sound like some elitist fuck who despises the people he surrounds himself with. I enjoy these guys’ company, I’m just not sure my friends would.

But then again, if there’s one guy who I know I can bring ANYWHERE and not only will he fit in, but he’ll also make a great impression on everyone, it’s Brad. From a fortune 500 CEO benefit dinner to an ice fishing week-end with a bunch of truckers.

This restaurant is known to have the most beautiful patio in town, with gardens and waterfalls. But it was raining, so we sat inside.

Brad actually enjoyed himself, and so did I.

Not only was the dinner free, but another one of my boss sitting with us ordered like 4 bottles of a very decent Italian wine, the Carpineto Farnito. Brad and I ended up ordering a bottle of my all time favourite wine, the Zenato ripassa.

The celery root and pear soup was simply amazing. The braised veal cheeks sucked ass. I didn’t really mind though. Every time I go to the restaurant, I’m hardly hungry when the main course arrive. After a few drinks and an appetizer, I’m good.. I can’t remember the last time I finished a plate at the restaurant.

The guestlist girl was totally over Brad. She’s not insanely pretty, but she has the body and the sex appeal of a porn star. I would have given her 21 or 22. She’s 18. Which means that not so long ago, she was 17 and didn’t look much different. That’s unsettling

With the staff from our other bosses club, we were around 40, occupying most of the restaurant. Beside us, there was a couple in their sixties. The man constantly looked around. He seemed pretty amazed by the fact that all the girls in the room were at the very least beautiful, but mostly top model material.

After dinner, Brad drove me home and came up for a joint.

A fun and cheap night!

Friday, June 5, 2009

Didn't happen

So that party?

Yeah I didn’t go.

When I left to go teach at 3, I knew I pretty much had no chance of getting in. The tickets didn’t sell in one after noon, they sold in 14 minutes. And the girl in charge of the media guestlist? Yeah… same as last year.

Meh, whatever. I figured, I’d stop by The Drinkery on my way home.

Just before I’m done, I receive a text message from Cynthia: Come have dinner with me at The Drinkery.

How perfect!

Cynthia is among my very best, best friends. She works in the office at The Drinkery, doing all the accounting. Now she’s actually a shareholder of the restaurant, but when I used to work there, she was just an employee as well.

Back when Cynthia was single, she would always party like there were no tomorrow. I can’t even remember the number of times we got ourselves completely wasted at the best restaurants and most exclusive clubs in town. She had the same spending problems as me and fancied the same things: cocktails and nice restaurants. We hit it off right away.

A year and a half ago, she met her boyfriend, a really great guy, perfect for her. So she left the circuit and disappeared quite abruptly. I was not on the circuit anymore myself at that time, mind you.

But now I’m back, and she’s not. And it’s just ok like that. Cynthia really wanted to find her guy, the one, the father of her kids. And she did, so I’m way happy for her, even though I hardly see her anymore.

But Cynthia is this kind of friend that I know will always be there in my life, no matter how much I actually see her.

All this to say that I was more than happy to join her at The Drinkery.

The last time we had dinner there, we stayed until closing time and I took a girl home, a girl I had just met an hour earlier at the bar. She left in the middle of the night in a hurry, I think cause the spell broke and she just snapped: what the hell am I doing here with a guy at least 5 years younger than me who I don’t know at all. I say I think cause I was way drunk and don’t remember a thing.

I know it’s not something I've done. First, I stay pretty much the same no matter how drunk I get. Sure I’ll be a drunk version of myself, but I’ll never be out of place, I’ll never do things I wouldn’t do if I weren’t drunk. And if I do reach such a stage, it means that I’m about to fall into an ethylic coma. Just give me one more shot and you won’t hear anymore from me.

But yeah, the next morning, when I woke up, I had NO IDEA what the girl looked like. Nothing, zip, not even a blur. I know she was cute, I don’t hit on non cute girls, but I still had to make sure. I called my two friends who were working the bar the night before. They confirmed that she was cute, also confirmed my impression that she was a bit older than me.

I saw her again. It made for an interesting date: So hello girl, basically you must assume that I know strictly nothing about you, no matter what you told me last night. Let’s start off by you telling me what you know about me. She was actually much prettier than I expected, she looked like a good girl, an intelligent girl, the kind of girl you’re proud to introduce to your parents. She certainly doesn’t strike you as the kind of girl who’d go home with a guy she’s known for a full hour. That either says a lot about appearances or about my abilities. You pick.

Tonight, sitting at a table behind us was an amazingly beautiful girl. I mean, truly beautiful. She was sitting with 4 other girls, they all look about 30 and they all look pretty.

The guy who was there with Cynthia and me last time and who had a great deal of responsibility in my drunkness, and the amnesia that followed, was supposed to be here on a date with a girl. We hadn’t seen him yet.

At one point in the night, I turn around and look at the table of girls.

“Cynthia… is it me, or Frank is actually sitting at the table of hot girls?”

We go say high to Frank. Turns out his date evolved in a dinner with friends. Cynthia knows one of the girls, I realize I know one of them too. She was sitting facing back, so I didn’t recognize her at first. She used to come with her sister all the time, back when I was working here.

At this point, I had spoken or introduced myself to everyone at the table, except the beautiful girl. I purposely ignore her.

She points at me and says : you..!

I point back at her and say : you!

She says: Don’t I know you from somewhere?.

I say: Well I’m the lead singer of Green Day, so that’s probably why ( I do look like this guy, a lot!).

She laughs.

And then I say, while looking her straight in the eyes, with a little mischievous smile and deep confidence: No. If we had met, I’d remember

At the same time, the waiter comes with their plates. “Bon apetit.” And I go back to the bar with Cynthia.

After we’re all finished eating, we return to their table to have a few shots. The pretty girl immediately starts to talk to me, obviously wanting my attention. Turns out she’s been an entertainment lawyer in LA for 6 years and she came back in town to celebrate her 30th birthday with old friends.

It was cute, after those 6 years in LA, she now had an English accent when she spoke.

We chatted a bit, but it was one of these times where you just can’t beat logistics. She was sleeping at her friend’s house and they had to wake up at 5 am to be somewhere.

Good night and have a nice life.

If I ever go to LA… well no. There’s already another girl I’d go see if I was in LA, but that’s a story for another time.

Thursday, June 4, 2009


There’s this party tonight where I really want to go. It’s the French Aperitif, it happens in over 20 cities around the world. Basically, it’s just a big marketing event to promote French products, mainly food and liquors. It’s a 60$ ticket open bar party where all the people from the restaurant and bar industry go to every year, my people.

Two years ago, I wrote a column about the party for The Journal.

Last year, I called the organizers to be on the guestlist. They said that due to limited places they could only accept journalists. I was asking for two places on the guestlist, since Harry had come home that very day from his year in Europe. So I told them that yes, it would be two journalists, and I gave her the name of a colleague from The Journal.

At the door, the girl with the guestlist appeared suspicious when Harry introduced himself as my colleague. They let us in, but the girl ran up to me and told me: I’m sorry, but [colleague’s name], I know him. I don’t like being lied to.

That kind of ruined my mood for the night.

This year, I still don’t have tickets (they normally get sold out in one after-noon). And I don’t want to call the person responsible of the media, just in case it’s the girl from last year.

I called my buddies who do the bar for the event, they’ll se what they can do.

I also emailed my uncle. He’s there every year, the party is organized by one of his best friend. The first year I went, I knew he’d be there, but he didn’t know I would. It was funny to see the shock on his face, when he saw me walk through the crowd. Later in the night, he introduced me to everyone he knew, sometimes twice, but at first, he was a little paralyzed by what probably made him feel 20 years older, just like that.

Oh. My uncle emailed back.

“24 hours, I would have said yes, but not today.… I think you can find some at the door.”

Yeah, but at what price? I want to invite Blondie. She’s the perfect date for such a night: incredibly hot and we’re just friends. But I can’t tell her to meet me there, all dressed up, in the hope that I can find tickets at the door. And two tickets, from a scalper at the door? That’ll set me back a good 200$.

I hope the boys will be able to come through on this one.

Maybe Scarlett, with her infinite address book, will be able to help. If she’s there, I can go alone with her. She’s probably an even better wingman than Blondie could ever be.

And it’s almost 3pm now and I don’t know if Blondie even wants to come.

Monday, June 1, 2009

The greatest ally

One of my greatest ally in terms of meeting women, the greatest wing man of all time is patience and also maybe a little faith in destiny.

Sure, sometimes, when the stars align, when everything falls into place, you can spend the night with a girl you just met.

But that’s the exception more than the rule. Most times, you just have to wait.

That’s how it happened with my good friend who’s halfway around the world saving orphans, literally. Had I tried to pull a move on the first night we met, I would have never seen her tattoo. But I flirted, waited and trusted my good friend, the destiny. And one night, the night she came alone at the bar, without her friends, when she knew me enough to be completely comfortable with me, I was there.

That night, over three years ago I joined her near the DJ when things had settled down enough for my partner to finish the night alone at the bar. I was just being my usual flirty self and at one point, she tells me: Wow, you’re really doing everything so that I can’t resist you tonight!

All this brings us to last fall, when I started school. There was this girl which I immediately noticed. I’m pretty sure half the students on campus noticed her, girls included. She would always wear mini skirts or short shorts. She let us enjoy the sight of her legs late into fall, even when the temperature was plummeting.

On the first few days, I managed to meet her, but kept my usual indifference. Her name is Julia.After a while, things started to be a little more flirty between us, but always light and playful. Then Christmas came.

During the winter semester, we had no classes together and barely even ran into each other in the hallways.

Just like that, two weeks before the end of the semester, I sent her a facebook email.

Title: It’s the time of spring and mini skirts
What’s up cutie
As soon as we’re done with this bitch of a semester what do you say we go have a real mohito at The Drinkery to celebrate spring?

She answered
Mini skirts eh? ; p
For a mohito, anytime

Then, when the semester was over, I dropped her another facebook email.

So, this mohito, when does it happen?

She never answered that one.

Now most guys would have been a little hurt by this, a few would have even confronted her with her this silence, probably trying to make her feel bad in the process, thus ruining their chances of ever seeing her again, her or any of her girlfriends for that matter.

Me? I really don’t care. You come, we have fun. You don’t come, I’ll figure out a way to have fun anyways. And I’ll still be as nice and flirty the next time I’ll se you, no hard feelings whatsoever.

Tonight, just before I went to bed, I checked my facebook page. One new email. It’s her.
She replied to my message, like I just sent it yesterday, and not 20 days ago.

“As soon as possible. I’m now completely addicted to mohitos. I’ll be in the area tomorrow night after work. You avaaaaaaaaaaaailable? Here’s my cell number…”.

I actually have my stupid exam tomorrow, from 6:30 to 9 pm, the one I missed a few weeks ago. Maybe 9 will not be too late for her. I don’t know what after work means. If she’s still a waitress, 9 might actually be a little too early.

But whatever happens tomorrow, I now have her cell number. And she gave it to me. Now I can send her a text message, once in a while, to suggest something fun, with the same “be there or be square” subtext.

Oh did I mention she won’t turn 20 until the end of the year? I know what I said, but that plan was set in motion almost a year ago, way before that resolution was ever taken.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Very sad

It was two weeks ago. Blondie and I had just arrived at the Club and were slowly setting up our bar.

The minute she saw me that night, she said : I have something to tell you.

A few minutes later, when we were alone, she told me to come over. In her purse, she was holding a positive pregnancy test.

I never thought that one day I’d be so happy to have never slept with her.

I’m so grateful to live in a country where girls can get a free and discreet abortion. Blondie will probably make a great mother someday, but definitely not today. She’s still a self-absorbed kid with absolutely no sense of responsibility.

The only time she had unprotected sex was when she slept with her ex a little while ago. And she took the morning after pill. But these pills are not fail proof.

I’m talking about this because I saw the news about this American abortion doctor who was shot in church and it makes me incredibly sad. I have the utmost respect for doctors who perform abortions. These doctors aren’t monsters, they took the Hippocrate oath live every other doctor, they probably have more respect for human life than any of us. I’m sure they struggle with this choice their whole life, but in the end, they understand the fact that the right to a decent life is more important than the right to life.

Sure, it is remotely possible that if Blondie were to keep that kid, he’d grow up to be good person and live a happy life. But if we’re gonna give right of life to the unborn, why stop at the fetus. If Blondie were to have this kid right now, she’d be denying life to another kid, one she would have latter, one with much, much higher chances of having a happy life, a stable life filled with love.

I understand that some women simply can’t live with that idea and believe they should have the kid regardless. And I have great respect for that too as I believe it takes immense courage to raise a kid when you’re nothing but ready. And that’s why it’s called pro-choice.

Life is good

Tonight at The Club, it was ok. Well, actually, if last week was “just ok”, tonight was below average.

The money was good, but hardly anything happened. I had a bunch of American tourists at my bar. They were loud, the girls weren’t cute at all and they tipped like shit.

In general, it’s known that Americans are good tippers. When I was a waiter at an upscale tourist restaurant, I used to love Americans! They religiously tipped 20$ after taxes.

But at The Club, the Americans we get are mostly under 21. They can’t get into bars at home and they just don’t know how it works. Unlike most girls I work with, I always try to tell them nicely. “hey guys, try to leave some tips tonight… all right ?”

I know most of them are just not used to this unwritten rule, but it can really ruin my mood. It’s pretty easy: 1 drink, 1 $. Two shots, 1$. There you go.

At 7$ a drink and 3$ a shot, it rounds up to 15%. I know, you think that 2$ is still a good tip for opening three beers. After all, why should I even make more? Opening three beers ain’t much harder than opening just one.

But that’s not how it works. See, I pay a cut. I pay 6% of my sales, regardless of how much tips I make, to my busboys and managers. Which means that if you tip me 10%, I only get to keep 4%. At this rate, to come home with a whole 10$ of tips, I’ll need to sell over 16 of those 6$ beers. So… yeah, I’m a bit pissed off when you leave me 1$ for two beers (which is actually less than 10%)

Fortunately, I always have some good local customers who compensate for the cheap fucks I get.

Enough with that, I just needed to blow off some steam. Let’s stay zen… you win some you loose some.

At one point in the night, I see a camera on my bar. The only people around are facing away, it seems like it was forgotten there. To make sure it doesn’t get stolen, I take it from the bar and put it on my back bar, right there in plain view.

At 3am, when everybody’s out, I reach for my pack of cigarette and I realize the camera is still there. No one came to ask for it.

I actually feel sorry for the owner. I once lost my camera, a few years ago, and I know how much it sucks. But it’s now totally mine. It’s not like handing it over to my bosses would be the honest thing to do. One of my boss would just have a new camera. It would be as helpful as giving it to the homeless guy on the street, in terms of returning it to the owner.

When I get home, I look in the camera to see what pictures are on it. Hey maybe I’ll see a boob or two!

I open the camera, and the first picture that appears (the last taken) is me, behind my bar. The second picture? Still me behind my bar. It’s not like I’m at the back of a shot. No, it’s just me. How fucking weird!

The other 150 pictures were of the American kids that were hanging out at my bar. I hope it belongs to the overly drunk fucker who consistently undertipped me, cause some of these guys were actually ok. But since there’s two pictures of me taken secretly on that thing, I kinda wish it belongs to the cutest of the American girls.

I guess I’ll start to post pictures now.

Oh! And it was Pascale’s birthday. She got pretty drunk. At one point, Sara and her were kissing. It’s always fun to see two (HOT) girls you’ve slept with in the last week kiss each other. It fuels the imagination, to say the least.

At 3:25, I received a text message from Pascale: Can I come sleep with you?

I’m tired, I’m drunk, she’s WAY drunk, all I want to do is go home and smoke a joint. I choose to ignore it.

At 4:30, when I’m ready to leave the club, I text back: Sorry, I just got your message… going to sleep, I’ll see you soon.

You know life is good when you can afford to turn down booty calls from a cute 19 years old barmaid.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

A kiss and a smile

She’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but a pair of tight boxers, some tiny pair I bought a while ago without trying them on and that I now keep for this specific purpose.

I take a last good look at her endless legs, at her small perky breasts. We’re going to bed, for good this time. It’s passed 5 in the morning. I just changed the bed sheets.

Her, looking in her purse: I had no idea I’d end up here tonight, I don’t have anything with me.

She pulls a pack of gum from that tiny black purse. I think she’s seriously considering the idea of using that sugar-free gum as a toothbrush.

I grab her around the waist, kiss her in the neck and gently move her to the side. I open the cabinet under the sink. I take out a new toothbrush, a bottle of make-up remover and the little cotton tampons. And a hair elastic.

Me: Here. Oh and if you need to pluck your eyes out, there’s some contact lens solution and the little case to store them in there as well.

Her: you know… most guys I know have a hard time buying toilet paper.

Me: Well, a lady’s gotta be treated like a lady, don’t you think?

Her with a slightly malicious smile on her face: … you really love women don’t you? I mean, you really actually love them... you’re a rare kind.

Me: And what kind is that?

Her: The kind that you love with all your heart for a night and that you set free the next morning, with a kiss and a smile.

Me: I don’t feel especially imprisoned right now.

Her: oh you will. I might not look like so, but I’m insanely jealous.

Me: … well come closer for now, the sun is not up yet.

Friday, May 29, 2009


Last night, I had plans to meet Brad after work to go to a new bar that opened in an up and coming part of town. He calls me in the afternoon: D’you mind if we go have dinner with my father? He’ll be at the restaurant where my brother works and he’s inviting us.

Not only am I always up for a dinner out and some good wine, and God knows Brad’s father never orders cheap wine, but I was genuinely happy to see his father.

Brad and I know each other since we were born, our fathers were friends in college. Brad’s father is like a dad to me. When I first moved into the city, an hour and a half away from my parent’s home, I could always go to Brad’s house for a good home cooked dinner.

I also used to go up to their cottage a lot, which is more a mansion than a cottage. But I didn’t even get a change to go once this winter. I’m working every Saturday night at the bar so I can never leave town for the week-end with Brad.

It had been a long time since I had seen him. Brad’s younger brother Chuck was also at the table with us. He’s a waiter here, in this nice little authentic Italian restaurant. My parmegianna was great and so was the stuffed veal roast.

After dinner, Chuck comes with Brad and I to go see that new trendy English pub. On the way there, we get a call from Max, an old friend of us. His father too was friends with our parents in college. Somewhere at Brad’s house, there’s a picture of the three of us, in the bathtub, at 4 years old.

Max is with is roommate and good friend Johnson, they live quite close to where we’re going.

We meet up in some grocery store parking lot, not too far from the bar. Brad pulls over incredibly close to them, so they can pass the joint they’re smoking thru the window.

I don’t say anything, but now that there’s five of us, the chances of finding a place are pretty slim. I know this is a trendy and so quite busy spot. You can always squeeze yourself at the bar when you’re only two, but a table for five, at 9 on a Thursday night? Good luck.

As I expected, the bar is packed. I look around to see what the hype is all about. It’s really just some English pub. Apparently they’re all about that gastro pub trend, where they revisit traditional pub grub with fresh ingredients and new techniques. I hate the expression gastro pub. To me, gastro refers more to the stomach in its most medical and acid oozing form than to gastronomy. Why the unnecessary medical abbreviation? Just call it a damn gastronomy pub.

I suggest an old tavern, an institution in town, that’s just a few blocks away. It’s a huge place, a family business of more than 75 years, where they serve big bocks of beer and steaks the size of dictionaries.

They have a huge heated and covered patio. This is quite a set up, they even have a small kitchen with a grill outside. We go sit at the bar. The guys are happy; there’s a sport game on the big flat screen hung behind the bar. I couldn’t care less.

I started talking with Chuck, Brad’s brother. It’s been a while since we had a conversation.

He’s a smart kid, but he thinks a bit too much. Also, he’s a prisoner of his own life.

When I moved to the city, right before University, I was effectively cutting the bridge with my past. And though it might have been rough and lonely at first, it was incredibly liberating.

I was free of all the stupid things I had done and said to people, the kind of stupid things someone does when growing up, while learning the ropes of social relationships. But most of all, I was free of the image I had set up for myself as a kid, free of that image others expected from me.

All of a sudden, I could be whoever I wanted. I could make friends with people like me, people with whom I shared interests, not just the people who happened to be in my class that specific year.

Friends you make as an adult are often much better friends. The connections are richer too, these people love you for who you are, not just because you were friends at 14 years old and it’s what you’re used to..

I still see some good friends from high school, but on a one to one basis. Not with the whole gang, where we would inevitably regress to our stupid 15 years old selves.

Chuck is still caught up with is high school group of friends. He doesn’t feel he can really be himself when he’s among them and that they don’t appreciate him for what he truly is. He seemed quite relieved to know that it was a legitimate desire to make a tabula rasa and start fresh, as an adult, with everything you learned. He was interested in my stance on the topic since I had been there myself.

I also made sure to tell him how difficult and lonely that process can be. It’s hard to make new friends at first. But the more people you know, the more people you meet. And then you come across some wonderful beings. And then more and more and and you’re like… woah, there’s more to life than what I knew in my little teenage bubble life.

Hopefully, we’ll get to discuss this some more. I care for this kid.


Everything's fine with Pascale, we're friends and it's all good. Few.

Now I stay away from younger girls.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

New York - Day 2

For day one, go here.

Friday morning. Harry and I wake up around 10 am. The sun is out, the air is warm, it’s a beautiful summer day. We smoke a joint and roll two more for later on in the day.

We stop at the Starbucks on Broadways to grab a coffee and a muffin. We walk north to central park. On our way, we see a TGIF. Harry says he’d like to have a drink there. The French guys who taught us most of what we know behind a bar, worked at TGIF in Paris. I suggest we could try more authentic places since you can find these family restaurants along any highway in the states. He seems to really want it. I don’t want to play killjoy and what are 20 minutes and two drinks at a bar if it’ll make him happy? Plus, in the window, we see that they have 5$ long island iced tea for happy hour.

When we reach central park, we find a spot of lawn that’s not protected by a fence and that’s not too damp. We had brought our flair practice bottles and our shakers and we start juggling around for fun.

After a while, we smoke our joint, and just when we’re about to finish it, a bunch of teenagers, only guys, come near us with what appears to be their phys ed teacher… or something like that. We botch the joint and start to practice our flair again. The kids notice and they like it a lot. Some start filming us. We play along for a while.

Harry wants to see Central Park. I can barely stand up, let alone walk, so we decide to rent bicycles.

We go back to the park entrance, where we had seen guys with signs. We go see the first one and tell him we want bikes. He points to those man-powered tuktuk, the tricyles in which they take tourists around the park.

Sorry sir, there must be a misunderstanding. We want bicycles that we ride ourselves, not a stroll in what is basically the poorman’s version of the horse carriage. He says he’ll take us to the store, not too far away. Harry looks at me dead serious and says: if you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.

And so we hop on the tuktuk. We try to make friends with our Turkish “driver” to ease off the weird feeling of being some old colonialists in early 1900’s Indochine. He’s a recently graduated architect, he shows us his favorite skyscraper. Can’t remember which one it was, didn’t care much for it either.

At the bike shop, we get two decent mountain bikes with front suspension for 2 hours for a mere 20$. Every one is so friendly, they give us a map of the park, tell us we can even bring em in 15 minutes late without a problem.

Riding a bike doesn’t hurt at all, actually it kind of relaxes the overly tensed muscles in my feet. The feeling is amazing.

I had NO IDEA how big this freakin park is. After a good 15 minutes of fast pace riding, we get to the boathouse. At this point, I’m pretty sure we reached the north end of the park and that we’re about to turn around. Hell’s no! We haven’t even crossed the third of the park.

We stop on the great lawn to do some more flair. Some people are juggling with pins, with balls, others are playing with Frisbees. We have a crowd of spectators, which is always fun, but we don’t look like we’re putting on a show out nowhere either.

Two of the very few pretty girls we’ll see all week-end walk by and decide to stop and sit on the grass to watch us.

I ask Harry if he wants to go talk to the two girls and ask them what they’re doing tonight. He doesn’t seem too sure about it and I don’t feel like limping over there all by myself. We rationalize our lack of balls: whatever, we’ll meet girls tonight wherever we go.

We bring back the bikes and go back to the hotel, to smoke a joint, have a beer and relax a bit.

Showers and nice clothes.

We walk on Broadway and stop at the first TGIF we see. We find a place at the bar. We order two long island iced teas. The barmaid disappears somewhere behind and comes back with our drink a little later. What the hell was that? What’s the point of having a bar if you’re gonna go behind at the barservice station to make drinks. During the whole time we’re there, there’s never anyone behind the bar. This truly sucks, and the drinks taste kinda weird. We ask for the bill. 24$. 12$ each

“Aren’t we still on happy hour?”

“yeah, but there’s no special on long islands”

Turns out every franchise can choose their own happy hours special.

Now I can understand a TGIF on Time Square and a TGIF in buttfuck, Alabama might post different prices, but I’d expect the two restaurants on broadway, located less then half a mile apart, to have the same freakin happy hour specials.

We decide to head downtown to go to PDT, a pseudo-secret cocktail bar. I met one of theirs bartenders at a cocktail competition somewhere and I wanted to visit ever since.

We walk down fifth avenue. At the corner of 41st, there’s a town car on the left hand side of the street, waiting at a red light. We hear a huge boom, coming from the car. Immediately we think it just exploded.

Actually, it’s the manhole right behind it that poped out of the ground, flying 15 feet into the air. A second later, two more manholes go up flying with a huge boom, right in the middle of the intersection. And then, a HUGE blue flame comes up from the first exploding manhole. It doesn’t go up in a mushroom movie way. It actually makes more of a thick fog just over the grounds, 3 or 4 feet high, and 20 feet around the manhole.

Vince is thrilled. I’m not. I pull him by the sleeve, we’re getting away from here. We keep walking down 5th, carefully avoiding manholes. A minute later, the whole exloding corner street is in complete lock down, with police, paramedics and firemen.

I can no longer stand on my feet, so we try to get a cab. We haven’t yet figured out how the signs on the roof work and what they’re supposed to indicate. So we just keep our arm raised all the time hoping one will stop. It doesn’t work.

But a towncar waiting at a red light horns at us, flashing its lights. We’re a bit confused, we thought you could only get these cars on calls. The driver tells us it’s 20$ to go where we want. I’m more than willing to pay extra to ride in style, if only once. Too bad we’re not going to some velvet rope club with a line-up.

Harry really loves the Lower east side. It reminds us of the hip and trendy neighborhood in our town, where 95% of the population is between 20 and 35.

To get in PDT (Please don’t tell), you have to get into Criff’s Dogs, some hipster hot dog joint, and go into the old phone booth. In there, there’s a phone with a single button “call”. You hit it, it rings, some guy picks up and tells you they’ll be right there.

Though we’re both normally confident in any situations, this whole setups makes us feel like some 8th graders trying to get into a 12th graders’ party. Will we say the right thing? Will they let us in? … Try to act cool…

Harry doesn’t like it at all and finds this to be a lot of hassle just to have a drink.

I go over to the phone. The hostess opens the secret door from within the booth, she asks if I have a reservation. I tell her there’s just two of us and we’d like to sit at the bar. She puts us on the bar waiting list. My phone doesn’t get any signal here so I just tell her we’ll go have a drink somewhere on the street and be back.

We go to some little pub right around the corner. It’s just ok. We go back to Criff’s Dogs and start to wait. Fortunately, there’s a tv with a surf and skateboarding movie playing. We see tons of people going to the phone booth, talking to the girl and walking away, but we hardly see anyone going in. After 40 minutes of this, I go tell her we’ll just come some other time. She asks my name. Tells me she’s been looking for me for a while. She says I’m next on the list.

She finally comes to get us 5 minutes later.

The place is small, dark and intimate. On the wall, just next to the bar is a stuffed rabbit head with deer antlers. Cool.

Once again we try to make friends with the bartender and once again it’s proving real hard. Bartenders keep to themselves and don’t seem to want to drink with customers here. I mean that’s precisely the two cornerstones of the profession: being outgoing and being able to drink. Why not become a librarian instead?

I order a variation of the manhattan. Instead of putting cubes of ices in my drink, the barman takes a huge block of ice, something the size of a rubic cube and puts it into a weird machine. When he opens the machine, there’s a perfect sphere of ice, the size of a snooker ball. (images here)

Harry and I can’t believe it and we go like: WHAT!, maybe a little loud.

The very pretty girl sitting next to us at the bar, one of the very few we saw all week-end, turns around with a curious face that says: Hey what’s this all about?

We try to briefly explain it to her: oh sorry, it’s just this machine produced a perfect sphere of ice, we’re both bartenders and we’ve never seen that anywh …

She interrupts and says, with such condescendence: I have no idea what you’re talking about and honestly I don’t care.

It’s only because she was sitting with a somewhat tough looking guy that I didn’t put her back in her place. “Listen girl, no one is pretty enough to be that big of a bitch Try being nice to strangers, it’ll change your life. Now you can turn right back around and have a nice night”. The guy would have had to step in and I really didn’t want to make a scene.

But that really bothered us. I mean we’re nice guys, we’re polite and tactful, we’re fun and won’t intrude, what the fuck is her problem. No wonder the bartenders keep to themselves if that’s what New York is like.

We keep ordering drinks, we don’t know half the bottles behind that bar. The cocktails are nice, very old school, but nothing blew us away. You can add the rarest and oldest bitter to your cocktail if you want, but if there’s only booze in there, it’ll taste like booze. I mean I like a straight bourbon so I can appreciate pretty much anything. But I also like the new kinds of cocktails, with fresh fruits, fruit purees, teas, jams… even the new molecular cocktails, but the whole old school thing, well… it gets old pretty fast.

The bitch and her date finally leave. Two nice people take their place. A girl who just moved to NY and her friend who knows the place very well. We become friends real fast.

PDT is really a no-fun bar. The bartender never exchanged more than a word with us, though I must admit he willfully did the whole Ice sphere thing again so we could videotape it. But at three different times, he told us to quite down. Yeah PDT is a bar where you can’t laugh, or if you do, you have to whisper-laugh.

I mean we were louder than the rest of the patrons, but we weren’t particularly loud. The four of us were the only ones who actually seemed to have fun in the place. But it was really weird. I mean in a bar where people are dancing on the tables, Harry and I will be leaning casually on the bar, talking to girls. We’re not rowdy people, we’re bar people.

Yeah, this guy definitely should have become a librarian.

I ask our new friend who knows the area for a good steakhouse. He tells me we need to try Azul, this argentinian grill. Sounds perfect.

We leave PDT, walk into the little park just at the end of the street, find a comfortable bench without too many people around and smoke a joint. We sit there for a minute, enjoying the warm night, and we get up to go to Azul.

We turn on Stanton, where the restaurant is located. I stop at a convenience store to buy cigarettes. Harry waits outside.

When I get out, he points to the restaurant with the big open windows, right next to the convenience store and tells me: Fuck Azul, man, I want to go to this place.

Whatever, this place looks fun and it smells amazing: a mix of smoke, lemon and rosemary. We look to the sign above the door: Azul. RIGHT ON!

We get a table just by the window. We order the mixed grill for two and nice bottle of argentinian wine. Everything is completely amazing. The restaurant is unique and authentic, exactly what we wanted. This night is perfect.

After dinner, we go in search of a bar. We find one and walk up to the doorman. “10$ to get in, there’s lots of women in there guys”.

That’s something a doorman would NEVER say in our town! Of course there are girls in there, probably something like half the people in there, no? But then again, we live in a city where at least 75% of the girls in any given bar on any given night are pretty. On any given night in any give bar, there’s at least one, but most likely 5 to 10 girls that could do the cover of Maxim. And these girls are fun and easy to approach.

We saw that things are quite different in NY.

There was not a single cute girl in this bar. And the weirdest thing was that mostly everyone in this club was asian. That’s not what’s weird, at home too the Asians all hang out at the same club. No. What’s weird is that asian girls are normally very very cute and very slim. In this club… not so much.

Whatever, we were leaning at the bar, the barmaid was the only cute girl in the place and the DJ was spinning old school hip hop. Good old music I know, drinks and a cute barmaid, that’s all I need.

We didn’t make it pass 1am. Drunk, still a little high, and way tired, we took a cab and crashed for a good night sleep at the magnificent Carter Hotel.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Just ok - part 2

For part one, go here.

So last night, Scarlett came to see me at The Club with Marianne and her friends.

One of these girls is really cute, I mean really really cute. I’ve never seen her before. Turns out she’s Marianne’s best friend so we better forget about her.

Later on, Jenny comes to the bar. I’m surprised and quite happy to see her. At this point, I’m more than tipsy and Blondie, my beloved partner behind the bar, is completely wasted. She’s hardly doing anything, but I don’t care, I’m not very busy myself.

Around 2:30, Sara, the hot blonde waitress, comes up to my bar to flirt a bit. Blondie and I are the first ones upstairs in the office to count the cash, so by 3:30, we’re back at the bar to clean it. Sara is there, she’s as wasted as Blondie. The two girls inevitably start talking about their breasts and their nipples in particular.

Meanwhile, Nate, a 50 years old manager, is counting my liquor bottles and Marco, the busboy, is filling back my fridges. Both girls are sitting on the bar, still talking about their nipples. Many girls at The Club have fake boobs and most of the ones who don’t wish they had. These two wish they had. I tried to convince them that it’s nonsense and that fake boobs suck anyways but it’s a lost cause. Anyhow, Sara convinces Blondie to show all of us her nipple by first showing hers. I know she’s doing that specifically to turn me on and it’s totally working. I’ve probably seen every pair of underwear Blondie has, since she has trouble remembering to keep her legs closed when she’s wearing short short dresses, and I’ve even seen her just in her panties and bra, but I had never seen her nipple. Until last night. Meh… just another night at the bar.

The two girls were harassing Nate for a bottle a champagne. For a little while, he made them believe he’d get one and then he just disappeared.

I tell Sara: “Wanna come over to my place? I have plenty to drink.” As I’m saying that, she’s sitting on my bar and I’m in front of her, with my hands on each side of her tights, way up. At this very second, Pascale walks by us, coming down from the office. She goes down one more floor to go clean her bar.

I’m so busted. Forget that whole gentleman player bullshit, this definitely lacks class.

I go down first, say good night to Pascale, and wait for Sara on the curb. She comes down less than a minute later. I doubt Pascale was fooled.

In the cab, I receive a text message. Here’s the exchange that followed in the cab and at my place, while I was talking to Sara.

Pascale: Do you play the same number to every girl?
Me: A number? I don’t play any number
P: Ah… sorry then
Me: You ok?
P: It’s relative
Me: ?
P: Sara?
Me: Forget about that. It’s late, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.

Most girl would be completely intrigued as to who would send me these many text messages at 4 in the morning. But people at the club live for their phone, they constantly receive hundreds of text messages after closing time. I never do, but for Sara it seemed totally normal… I don’t think she even noticed.

Sara was insane in bed. I won’t get into crude details cause that’s not what we do here at WnC, but she demanded things you’d normally have trouble convincing a girl to do. Unheard of.

But now I have to fix this with Pascale. I still want her as a friend, she’s fun and all.

Seriously, I need to get away from younger girls now. Unless they throw themselves at me in a strictly sexual kind of way, like Sara just did.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Just ok - part 1

Last night at The Club was ok. Just ok. Not so many people, hardly any cute girls at my bar I could flirt with.

Scarlett and her friends came to see me at one point in the night. She was with her friend Marianne, who I know, and a few of Marianne’s friends.

I’ve met Marianne some night this winter. Scarlett and I were at this new club opening, where I slipped in the stairs and almost fell all the way down. I managed to hold on for dear life, but all my right hand could grab on was a small twisted steel cable (in the design of the handrail). I didn’t break a leg, but the skin at the first flex point on my middle and ring fingers was completely ripped off. I had two huge holes right where the fingers bend. And of course, I’m right handed. The fun of dry friction.

This happened just when we were leaving. We get into a cab to go to some other club where Scarlett’s friends are. Right around the corner to the second club was a parked ambulance, waiting for a call. I knock on the window and show my bleeding hand. The paramedic did an awesome job at fixing me up. The huge band aid she put on allowed me to still move my hand. And I wasn’t feeling much pain, but that could have been the booze or the cold. All that for free and with a smile.

Anyhow, we get into the club and join Scarlett’s friends.

I go see Scarlett: This girl over there, she’s really cute.

Scarlett: She’s my friend Marianne, she’s a nice girl.

A few moments later, when she’s standing nearby, Scarlett introduces us : Marianne, I don’t know if you’ve met Alex, we work together at The Journal.

And that was it, that was all it took me. I pulled the classic moves with the classic attitude. By 2:30 I was kissing her, at 3 she was jumping in the cab with me. And all that with a torn up hand.

That’s a thing I love about older girls, they know what they want and don’t need a whole mise-en-scene to allow themselves to get it. She has a good 8 years on me.

A few weeks later, I was with Scarlett and her boyfriend, in a trendy lounge in the hip part of town, and she was there too. She was a bit distant. Not playing stranger or anything, but she was putting on a slight "don’t think it’ll happen again" attitude. The first night, she actually thought that I was younger by a year or two, not a freakin decade.

At one point, we’re both leaning on the bar, next to each other. We don’t talk much. She turns and says: Listen I’m sorry, I’m a little off tonight, my ex is right here with a girl.

She points me to some tall guy not even 10 feet away from us, dancing with a girl.

Her: He left me cause I was too old, that’s what he said. Look at this bitch, she’s older than me. I’m sure she sucks in bed… I’m sorry, I’m way out of line.

Me: No you’re not. That’s incredibly tacky of him. If I was here with some girl and an ex-girlfriend who I had left walked in the door, I’d be gone in a minute. Want to make him jealous?

Her: How?

I start leaning in a little closer on her, looking her deep in the eyes, touching her each time I make her laugh, stroking her hair from time to time. I can see from the corner of my eye that the ex-boyfriend hasn’t missed a thing.

His face is priceless when we walk pass him, at 2:30 am as we leave the bar hand in hand.

Outside on the curb, I say: Well that was fun. Have a good night princess and don’t worry about it too much.

Her: You’re taking me to your place?

Seems like pretend flirting is just as efficient as real life flirting!


So last night, Scarlett came to see me at the club with Marianne and her friends.

To be continued…

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Monday afternoon

I clean the hell out of my apartment. Dishes, laundry, ironing, clean bedsheets and a quick bathroom fix.

Pascale comes to pick me up around 4:30. We go to the wine store. I choose a ripasso and a new-zealand sauvignon blanc. We go to the huge farmer’s market, not to far from my place. It’s still early spring so there’s mostly flowers, but we manage to find everything we want. She loves the place, as do most people. We go the fish monger, the cheese store, the bakery, and we pick up fruits and vegetables in the market. I let her pay for a few things.

As we’re walking around, we run into Scarlett. She’s with her mother. Now I know Scarlett and Pascale come from the same far away town, some place very small. But I also know they are nearly 10 years apart… what are the odds.

I introduce everyone. Scarlett looks at Pascale and says: I so know you!

She continues: Yeah, when you were a young teen, you were hanging out at The Local (Some sort of youth community center where they offer activities back in their home town).

Now this is embarrassing. Scarlett was not hanging out there herself, she was a youth worker there. It’s like she’s seeing me walk around with a girl she babysat!

We get back to my place. I make her a watermelon and basil cocktail and I pour myself a bourbon on ice.

I cook for her… I mess up pretty much everything. My timing was way off, I was a bit tipsy and my small kitchen with about two square feet of countertop surface sucks. She says she loves everything and eats way more than I do.

After dinner, we moved to the living room. There was some tension, some touching, but she was not gonna make that easy for me. Fine, I don’t mind pulling bold moves. It works 99% of the time and if it doesn’t, women are still gonna respect you way more for trying than for not trying.

I move in and kiss her.

Things heat up a bit, but she looks like she wants to stay in control. It’s normal, she’s young, she’s here alone at my place and she barely knows me. All she knows is that I’m sort of a player. So I just let her take things slow, until she closes in on me.

We never made it to the fourth anniversary party of The Club. I hope it wasn’t noticed.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

A triangle?

Tonight was fun.

Not only did I make a shitload of money, but I also got to flirt a bit.

Bartending is all about meeting girls and being the center of attention. But at The Club, I always work on the third floor. On the third floor, there’s only groups of friends. People come to the bar to order a drink and go straight back to their friends. I never have two or three girls who just hang out all night at my bar.

But tonight, for some reason, I got some attention.

There was this cute young girl. She’s cute but she knows it way too much. She orders shots. As I take the empty shots, I throw them in the air, catch one up high and the other one below, behind my back. It’s a slick move that’s fun and easy to do.

She goes, a little bit cocky: Hey! You stop that. Now just give me 3 shots of Tequila.
Me, with a huge smile on my face: Hey pumpkin, you don’t talk to me like that… just won’t work. Now what can I do you for? Still with a big smile on my face
Her: … oh… I’m sorry… ok. Could I have three shots of tequila please?
Me: you got it cutie.

She gave me like 10 bucks of tips for her three shots, and just because I turned her right around when she started being bitchy. She ordered all night at my bar, even kissing me on the cheeks a few times.

Then there was this cute girl who was obviously not from here but I couldn’t tell for my life where she’s from. Somewhere between Morocco and Indonesia, I’d say.

She starts arguing about something, I don’t remember what, but it’s playful. I get into it. One of her friends, or maybe even her boyfriend, comes right next to her and puts his arm around her shoulder. Pretty pathetic defensive move. I seize the opportunity and whisper in her ear, while the other looser still has his arm around her: Wow, he’s very possessive your friend. She goes “yeah”, with a face that says : tell me about it!

A few minutes later she orders something, she looks at me and says: Can I tell you something? You’re kinda cute.

Me: Can I tell you something? Right back at you.

But that’s nothing.


On my last post, I was telling you about Sara, the hot, tall, blonde waitress who was overly flirty a few weeks ago, right in front of the other cute barmaid, Pascale, who’s coming over for dinner Monday night.

Tonight, Pascale was filling in once again and Sara was serving the booths right next to her bar. They hung out the whole night.

Around 2:30 am, when we’re both tipsy, Sara comes up to my bar to get something. Just as she walks behind the bar, I look at her and say: God you’re hot.

She looks at me with a are you for real? look on her face and says: You know I kinda want you, right?

I look at her with my typical Oooh, that’s hot face.

And then she says: Now why didn’t you ask me my number and took me out for dinks? Why did you go with Pascale last night?

It’s not exactly playful anymore, I mean there's still a lot of sexual tension, she touches me while she says this, but she actually looks a bit hurt.

I tell her: Now wait. First, I added you on facebook, and I asked if you were coming to the staff night, a few weeks ago, hoping you’d be there, and you never answered. Second of all, Pascale is a friend. She’s the one who started talking to me, and yes I did have drinks with her last night, but I didn’t try to take her home. You… on the other hand…

She looks at me with a yeah, yeah, keep talking kind of face, but I can see she buys into my logics.

When the club is closed, she comes over to my bar when I’m alone to smoke a cigarette. I go straight back to building sexual tension.

Me: you know, I actually can’t wait to see you again. I wanted you since the first time I saw you.

Her: yeah right, bullshit!

Me: for real, my friends have heard of Sara, this hot, tall, blonde waitress at The Club.

Her, sill pretending to not buy it, but obviously flattered: yeah yeah…

And then I grab her, pull her close and kiss her. The new busboy, who was on his very first shift, was coming up the stairs at the very same time. He turned right around. Good boy.

Her: Oh, and I must confess something, I think I said something I shouldn’t have earlier.

Me: go on…

Here’s how she told me the conversation went:

Her: So I basically have three options to have sex tonight, this cute friend of my ex, the soccer player (from a BIG team, which we won’t name cause we’re classy here at WnC) and this other guy you don’t know.

Pascale: who’s that other guy?

Her: You don’t know him.

Pascale: He works here doesn’t he?

Her: No, you don’t know him!

Pascale: It’s Alex isn’t it?

Her: yeah kinda.


I ask her: Why did she jump to me right away?

She says: well cause earlier, when she told me she went to have a drinks with you last night, I might have been a little surprised, and maybe asked a little to much about it.

Her: Really? He invited you? How was it? Do you two like each other?

Pascale: Well he’s nice, but I’m not sure he’s interested in me.

Her: Yeah, that’s Alex…


And then she tells me: Well it looks like Pascale liked you, so it’s wide open.

I act like I didn’t even hear that and I say, looking her straight in the eyes: We’ll see each other soon princesse… and I can’t wait. But now I have to clean my bar. Good night.

What is awesome about this story is that I’m not that pretty. I mean I guess I’m cute, if you’re looking for it, but these girl wouldn’t even notice me if I walked pass them in the street.

But what’s really awesome about this situation, is that this morning, Pascale was thinking: wow, what a gentleman, he didn’t try to get me home or anything, he just wanted to have a good time.

And tonight, she’s thinking….. well why the hell didn’t he try to bring me home? Am I not cute enough, why would he prefer Sara?

Seriously… I can’t say this enough. I love my life.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

I really don't

So there’s this cute barmaid I work with at The Club. I say work with, but we never actually worked at the same bar. I’m always with Blondie and she just fills in once in a while.

She’s pretty, she’s fun and she’s not even 20. I figured I’d try to know her. The Universe decided to make it happen, in a way so effective I didn’t think it was even possible.

A few weeks ago, I stopped at her bar to chat a minute or two, before the doors were opened. Her bar is literally on the way to mine and I kept it very cool.

A minute later, I was chatting with Sara, this tall and hot blonde waitress, who was overly flirty. She’s often like that at 3am when she’s drunk, but it wasn’t even 10. All that in front of the cute barmaid. Once again, I kept it cool.

She added me on Facebook and we chatted a few times. Each time, she was the one engaging the conversation, and each time, I was the one ending it. We would talk for a good half hour when I’d say “gotta go”. But each time, the conversation would go on and I would always blame it on her: like please, you gotta let me go now, I have stuff to do. Playful of course.

Then there was a staff meeting, where we both were. I gave her a nice and genuine smile when I came it, but sat with Blondie the whole time. We chatted a bit on the curb outside when the meeting was over and went our way.

She’s been starting MSN conversation all the time since, even putting herself “appear offline” while talking to me for long times.

Turns out she’s from a small town, far far away and came here for school, in September. She hasn’t made many friends yet and she’s pretty excited about her first summer in the city. I offered to play tour guide, something I love to do. No one loves this city like I do, and knows it the way I do.

Last night, we had drinks at The Drinkery. She loved the place, loved the drinks I picked for her, loved the flair they do over there. As always, I knew everyone in the place.

At one point she says: You’re a real star here, aren’t you?

I kept it cool: Well it’s family here.

When we left, I told her which way to take and I walked away right there and then, without pulling any move whatsoever.

It’s all about logistics. Tonight was about her testing me, seeing me outside of work for a whole evening. She still has one paper to finish before her semester is officially over and she knew she was going home alone and not too late.

Like Wyclef said: Good things come to those who wait.

So she’s coming over Monday to have dinner. I think I’ll take her to the huge fresh market. She might have already been, but maybe not and it’s still something fun to do. You go handpick your ingredients, letting yourself be inspired by what you see. You come home and you cook the hell out of them. This setup has never failed. Not once. I cook well according to any standards, but for a mid 20s single bartender living alone, I cook fucking well. They usually jump me before desert.

But this one, I want to make sure we’re friends before we sleep together. She’s a fun girl I’d like to have in my group of friends. I’ll have plenty of free time this summer and there’s no better way to spend it than with a cute girl. I have very good friends, friends that will be there all my life, but they’re not the people I can spend all my afternoons and nights with. They’re all working 9 to 5 (some 8 to 8, 6/7 ), they live with their boyfriends and girlfriends or they’re traveling the world.

No, spending time with someone new to the city will be awesome. It’ll make me revisit places I haven’t been in ages and will make me do things I probably wouldn’t have bothered to do.

Plus, it’s no secret that hanging out with cute girls attract more cute girls.

There’s two types of player, in a woman’s mind.

There’s the self absorbed player, who do it to tell his friends, who accumulates women like hunting trophies. These guys don’t respect the women they’re sleeping with precisely because they’re sleeping with them. Like, Woody Allen said in Annie Hall, which he attributed to Groucho Marx: I would not want to belong to a club that would have me as a member.

Most women, in other words, the not too stupid and not too drunk women can smell this kind of player come from miles away and will protect they’re girlfriends from him.

Then there’s the gentleman player. The one who sleeps with women because he truly loves them. The kind that respects the women he sleeps with, that doesn’t judge them, that doesn’t get jealous or possessive. The kind that will make a women feel sexy, desired and appreciated when she leaves in the morning, after a cappuccino and croissants.

Most women love this kind of player and even if they’re not interested, they’ll let him get away with pretty much everything.

And there’s no better way to set that frame than to hang out with beautiful girls who you’ve obviously slept with. You don’t have to mention anything, other girls will pick up on the shared complicity. It shows them that you’re used to being with pretty girls, that you don’t idolize them, don’t put em on a pedestal, appreciate them for the person they are. And most important, it shows that you’re a guy who respects the girls he sleeps with, enough to be friends with many of them.

But then again, if after a cocktail or two and half a bottle of wine, this cutie jumps me, I don’t see how I could possibly get out of it. I really don’t.

Monday, May 11, 2009

New York - day 1

New York was legendary, way beyond any expectations.

We flew in quite early on Thursday morning.

Just as we get out of the airport, the bus to Time Square is leaving. Our hotel is half a block from where she drops us.

We check in at the creepy Carter hotel. Our room is actually quite ok. I haven’t seen a single bug the whole time I was there, which is a net improvement over the two previous times.

We start walking towards downtown, all the way from Time Square to the Staten Island ferry terminal at the southern point of the island. We hop on for the free back and forth ride.

The sun is starting to show itself so we start looking for a terrace, to have lunch. We end up in little Italy, where we chose a nice restaurant with a terrace on the sidewalk. The waiter brings us the menu, I stop him in his track and ask my usual:

Me: Don’t feel like reading, what’s the specialty, what can’t we miss.
Him, typical waiter answer: Depends on what you want, we got great fish, chicken is good…
Me, interrupting: no no no. What’s the best, what would you order right now?
Him, seeing that I actually trust him and that I’m not just trying to make him bear the responsibility of me not enjoy my meal or my life in general– many people are like that: Oh, the Osso Bucco.
Me: splendid. I look at Harry, he confirms. Twice. With two beers.
Him: Perroni?
Me: sure!

The osso bucco is superb, beers are good. Man this trip is starting well.

It starts to rain. Really hard. We’re covered by the awning but the wind sometimes blows a cold mist on us. The timing is perfect though, we could still be looking for a restaurant.

Just as we finish our meal, the rain stops. My left foot starts to hurt, in a way that I’m way too familiar with. It happened the last time I came to NY, almost two years ago. The first time, I thought it was because I had started wearing a new pair of shoes a few days before. But now I understand. It’s because I’ve walked for way too long in my flip flops.

Damn. So my beloved blue flip flops actually destroy the muscles in my foot if I wear them too much. Good to know.

At this point, I’m hoping it’s gonna pass. I take off my flip flops and I start walking the wet streets of Manhattan barefoot. People hardly notice. But when they do, they don’t get it. I don’t exactly look hippie.

We go back to the hotel, to take a shower and change. We go down to the Flat Iron Lounge, an old school cocktail bar.

My feet are killing me. I feel bad, cause we just got in for three days in NY which by definition means walking over a 100 miles. It’s Harry’s first time in NY and I don’t want to be a drag.

At the Flat Iron, we manage to find a spot at the bar. We start to chat with the bartender. He doesn’t seem to want to talk to us too much. We insist, we ask questions, we’re being nice and interested. He loosens up. By our third drink, he engages conversation, makes us try tiny sips of alcohol we just can’t get at home. He buys us drinks. We ask for a nice restaurant with a bar we can sit at and some ambiance. He suggests the garage, at the corner of two streets I totally have forgotten about.

We get there, find two seats at the bar. There’s a jazz band playing, they’re pretty good. We order a few appetizers and an entree that we’ll just share.

We tease the barmaid a little, she stays somewhat distant. People around us don’t seem to want to talk. This place is ok, but really not the mood I was expecting. She still offer the shots of whisky we ordered. We had ordered three jacks, but she poured a jameson for herself. I think that’s being overly picky but whatev.

We leave the restaurant quite hammered and go for the tiny little park just next block. When we get there, some big scary black guy with a shaved head, a big beard and eyes that don’t seem perfectly sane come to ask us for money. I steer the discussion away and ask him if he can get us some weed.

He says we’ll have to give him some money. Whatever, we know we’ll be overcharged, were’s tourists, but we really want some weed.

So Harry leaves with him while I stay here in the park, with his friends the flamboyant 50 something homosexual Albert, who insists that I sit on his lap the whole time, and cookie, the tranny hooker with a deep voice. This is funny.

Harry comes back with the crazy black dude and signals me that everything’s ok. Well sorta. We just paid 200$ Us for something that we pay around 20$ at home. Oh well, we didn’t come here on a budget.

We smoke one with the crazy black dude and take a cab back to time square. We’re happy, a little drunk and completely high. This night was perfect, but it’s nothing compared to what’s ahead. But we don’t know that yet, so we’re on this cloud.

We sit on two mailbox right on freakin time square and we watch people walk by. Funnily, that’s probably where we had the most interactions all day. Some guy takes a picture of us. The hottest girl we’ve seen all day, a tall and beautiful asian chick, asks us if we know a good stripjoint around. And she sticks for a little while even when we told her we didn’t know. Had we not been high, we would have definitely went with her, but this is not our trip right now.

After a while, we go back to the hotel to smoke another one and we get to sleep.

easy monday


Wednesday, May 6, 2009


On my dryer's cycle, there's "more dry", "less dry" and "cool down".

Now who on earth puts their clothes in the dryer to get em less dry? They're soaking wet when I put em in them, how could it even makes them less dry?

Monday, May 4, 2009

Lost cause

Friday I was working the bar for a special event. Every year this prominent dance company holds a black-tie 500$-a-plate ball to raise funds.

I had to get there for 3:30. At 4, my phone wakes me up. Yeah… I managed to sleep till 4 pm. It’s all good, my friends are organizing the event and I know we’ll have plenty of time to set up. We’ve done this before.

I was with Mateo, an old partner from The Drinkery. He’s an awesome bartender, he has a great energy, he’s almost a legend in the city. And there was this hottie with us, with whom I’ve worked at another event a month ago. She’s a typical barmaid, somewhat superficial - she’s about to open her own tanning salon, but really nice and sweet.

It was pretty slow. It’s a very formal event, people go more naturally towards champagne and if they do go for a cocktail, chances are they’ll take it easy to stay sober.

But after the dinner, the dancers came to our bar to party. The girls are beautiful, ridiculously fit – and flexible – and the guys are gay… my kind of demographics!

The prettiest of them all, a tall blond, is at my bar ordering when some old soul song starts to play. I ask her if there’s a show going on – from where we are, we can’t see the main dining room, where the dancers had performed earlier.

Her: no. why?
Me: oh, cause your company used to do this amazing dance on this song, my favourite one actually. It was just a couple on stage… quite beautiful.
Her: Oh my god you’re right! How d’you even know that? Oh and this drink is amazing thanks!
Me: Though I do it very well, I don’t just bartend. I like other things in life.

My sister is a dancer and she used to go to the training camp this particular dance company hold every summer. She brought me to a few of their shows. I avoid mentioning it to the blond dancer so that she wonders if I just happen to know everything or if I’m a fan of their work.

My friend/former boss cuts my shift at half passed midnight so that I can come with him at the after party in a fancy restaurant not too far away. He lets Mateo and our busboy clean and pack up everything. I feel bad, but it’s not like I asked for it.

Over there, I start talking with this cute girl that was jokingly complaining at the party earlier cause we had run out of Red Bull. She’s kind of a shy girl, works a lot, obviously not used to the whole bar environment. She seems a little bit intimidated by the way I flirt with her, but she also seems to like it. It’s playful, I tease her a lot.

Yeah she’s definitely enjoying this, but her friends and even her brother are right there around her. It’s also apparent that I’m a good 5 years younger. This is a lost cause, for tonight at least. She could never leave with the bartender she just met, like that, in front of her friends. Actually, I don’t think this kind of girl can even imagine this happening.

Oh well, that was fun anyways.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Can you say random?

And yet another drunk post. I don’t even know why I’m mentionning it, it seems to be getting the rule more than the exception.

So I just finished my semester today. Well thecnically, cause I still have a paper to turn in which is already more than a week late and I have to redo the exam for which I didn’t bother to show up. But “technically” finishing school for the summer is a good a reason as any to celebrate.

Plus, my good friend Louis-Jose, this bartender from France with whom I worked at The Drinkery finally came back, after a few months exile in his mother land, to settle here for good.

So I joined him at The Drinkery after work, Harry was at the bar.

Normally, everytime I go to The Drinkery, I end up talking to all the girls around me at the bar. But not tonight. Tonight was about being with my boys.

Louis-Jose leaves cause he has a dinner with his roomate. We must admit it, the guy is quick. He landed late last night and he’s already got a roomate and dinner to attend.

I stay bymyself at the bar, which is no biggie cause at The Drinkery, I’m never actually by myself.

Harry takes a 5 min break so we can go smoke a cigarette outside.

Some girl on a bicycle is coming toward us. I look at her the same way I look at every pretty girl that crosses my sight. She keeps looking at me and just when she gets close, she goes : NO WAY! And she stops.

Ok. Now this cute girl obviously knows me. And she does look familiar. But I have no idea where I’ve seen her before. Did she come at The Drinkery when I was working there, did I go somewhere she works, do I know her from school? I have no idea.

So yes, she’s from school. But from highschool. This is a girl I haven’t seen in 9 years.

As a teenager, I lived in a small provincial town, some two hour drive away from the city.

So we chat a bit. Harry and I both finish our cigarette, he rushes back in; he’s working.

I stay with her to chat some more. It’s pretty nice to be able to just stay outside at night without running for a coat.

Conversation isn’t exactly stale, but it isn’t flowing easily either. It’s hard to play catch up with someone you haven’t seen since you were a kid. And that you didn’t even know that much back then.

She tells me: We used to hate each other in our moral and ethics class (the class that atheists take instead of religion) I say: Well I know I could be a jerk but I don’t remember hating you.

We keep talking for a while, she just quit her job. Like today. And she just left her boyfriend. Like yesterday. I invite her inside for a drink. I don’t know if she’s gonna say yes. The Drinkery is not pretentious but it’s still upsale and quite pricey. And there’s something a little hippie about her looks. But then again, she used to work at the most prestigious jewel shop in town. I don’t know any jewel shop, but I know this one.

She comes in with me. I buy her a drink, something I never do.

So we keep talking. I start pulling the moves; teasing her, touching her when I make a joke… She has those amazing sparkling blue eyes. And I still have no fucking idea who she is.

The subtext is loud and clear: we both insist on the fact that we like to have fun and that we’re not looking for a long term relationship at the moment.

We go outside for a cigarette. It’s raining so we stand on the porch, next door, in a little cove that offers some slight privacy. And I go for it. I just say: I’m gonna do somethhing I wanted to do for a while now. And I kiss her.

It’s intense, it’s passionate, it’s “live the moment” as it can be. It lasts for a good 10 minutes. Tension rises even more, she’s almost groaning, now. I pull my usual line: Ok I want you too much now, I’ll have to kidnap you.

“Not the time of the month” she says. Damn! When I was a kid, this used to be my curse. Everytime I thaught I was getting lucky, the plane crashed the mountain because of that. But it hadn’t happen to me in years.

She’s supposed to come over for dinner in the middle of the week. I’m not sure we’ll make it pass the apetizers.

How random was that?