Walking down Bleeker Street, Ilya and I were passed by a group of hot young girls. A late-twenties looking guy who was walking a few feet in front of us made a loud, sexist comment in their direction. He turned around to see if we were laughing, and asked us if we voted. We both responded with “Yes.” He then informed us that his name was [redacted] and he was running for Mayor of New York. We walked the entire way to Lit with him, chatting about politics, his platform, hot chicks, his new public access television program, and other mundane things. The guy was clearly not right in the head but we spoke candidly, like old friends. When we reached 2nd Avenue we went our separate ways.

As we walked towards the group gathering outside Lit, Ilya suddenly turned to a man walking to his right and asked, “Aren’t you in Blues Explosion?” It was Russell Simmons, the drummer for the Blues Explosion.

“Yeah.” Russell said. I’d always heard that he was not very personable and a little anti-social.

“Orange, man. Awesome.” Ilya offered.

“Thanks.” We traded cheesy thumbs up or waves or nods, and watched his clique descend into Lit. We gathered with our sluts in front of the club and made our entrance. While the girls looked for the bathroom, Ilya got a vodka tonic and I got a Rolling Rock.

We went downstairs and started dancing, or in my case shuffling around. Ilya noticed that his girlfriend’s roommate from Los Angeles was in attendance, and after several moments of jaw-dropping awe, he danced his way over to her. In the meantime, I got to know the girls a little better, and tried to dance with them. Marsha fed me her Long Island iced tea as she tried to coax me into moving my body with some semblance of rhythm. Eventually everyone made their way to a small alcove on the far side of the room, near a stage that was being used as a dance floor by several hipsters.

I plopped down between Leah’s legs as she was reclining in the alcove with Sandra. She wrapped her arms around me and offered me some of her drink. Ilya slowly walked over to us and announced that he was trashed. He handed me some of his vodka and tonic to test how strong it was. I told him it was strong. We laughed at his condition and he asked how I was and I responded “Good,” definitely buzzed but by no means trashed. There was lots of giggling and laughing, and eventually the barriers between the girls and I became slightly more lax. Before I know it there was tickling and cuddling and groping occurring in the alcove, most of which was focused on my body. There was a lot of nipple play involved. I challenged the girls to see if they could make me laugh, and tried to teach them the fine art of stifling laughter, which I equated to yoga or transcendental meditation. Time became a null factor. With everyone so comfortable and close in our little alcove, I was sure something good would have happened if we stuck around longer. But when Ilya pointed to his cell phone and informed me that it was past 3am, we decided to leave. Why? Because it’s a fact that when you leave the girl wanting more, she goes insane with desire and jealousy. The payoff is worth going home alone that one night. So, we left.

But first, burritos at San Loco. Ilya got a catfish burrito and I got a dish of nachos. After announcing he was still trashed, we began wondering about the car, whether it was still there, and how far the walk was going to be back to Hudson Street. We got some sodas for the road, I urinated, and we began our long walk back to the car. We talked about life and family, work, and of course, the girls. Namely we spoke Leah’s ass and Sandra’s tits. They were both quite nice.

As we turned down Hudson, the street appeared empty.

“Where are the cars? Oh man where’s the car,” we thought, remembering the night Ilya’s car got towed and we had to spend several hours at the impound waiting to get it back.

The car was up a few blocks. We hopped in, I put on an Enon CD and turned the ignition. I pulled away from the curb and before I could even disengage my blinker there was a cop car behind us. Its lights flickered and spun, its sirens bleeped and sputtered. At first I switched lanes hoping it would speed past, but instead the car got up right behind us, and less than a block from our original parking spot, we were stopped on the other side of the street. Thoughts of breathalyzers flashed through my head. I leaned my head out the window and asked, “Is everything alright, officer?”

“Did you know your taillights are out?”

“What? Are you serious?”

“License, registration and insurance, please.” My cell phone began to ring and I did not want to pick it up so I threw it on the floor. I reached over Ilya to the glove compartment and fished for the required materials, coming up with all three.

“Are they really out?” I asked, unbuckling my seat belt and reaching for the car door.

“Yes. Stay right here. Don’t get out of the car.”

I tried playing around with the lights on the dashboard, thinking maybe if I turned on and off the fog lights something would happen. I turned off the car and sat there, wanting to get out and look. The phone continued ringing as the officer began to make his way back to his car. I let Ilya pick it up and speak to Elissa.

We sat for ten or fifteen minutes looking through the car’s manual, and I found nothing about the taillights. I mentioned how we’d probably end up being pulled over in New Jersey also, because at this time any policeman that sees a car without lights is going to assume it’s been heisted.

“You think this is bullshit and they just wanted to see if we were drunk or something?” I asked.

“Maybe.” Ilya stated, handing me back my phone.

“I bet they spotted the New Jersey tags and figured us for partiers leaving the city late, and we were probably trashed.” I laughed.

“I’m more trashed than I’ve been in many months,” Ilya admitted. “Since I started working, even.”

The officer returned with a ticket and informed me that once I have the problem fixed I can go to any precinct in the city and the ticket will be nullified. I asked for clarification, and he stated the information again. I thanked him, apologized and we turned on the car and started on our way home again. It was close to 4:30am, and we headed for the Lincoln tunnel.

As we drove, the sky lightened considerably. I dropped Ilya off. When I got home birds were chirping and the sky was light. I found my way inside, stripped off all my clothes, and turned on the radio. I could tell by the voices speaking about last night’s sporting events that they were indeed talking about yesterday’s news. It was that time already. Sleep would not come easy.

***

It was two weeks later when I saw Leah next. I met her for drinks at The Ginger Man. I consumed several pints of beer, and after a few hours realized I was off in my own silent world, an utterly useless drunk. I asked if she wanted to go around the block for some food before I drove her home. We went to a small diner and I ate an egg and cheese sandwich. I have no idea what we talked about, but she was giving me that look throughout the entire year. The “I wanna swallow your load” look. It sobered me up quickly. We headed to her apartment on the Upper West Side, and I anticipated being invited upstairs. I asked where I should park and she said, “On the corner – but, my parents are home.” I leaned over and kissed her. For ten or fifteen minutes we kissed and touched one another, and before leaving the car she made me swear I would call her again to hang out soon. I told her “We’ll see.” She pouted. This was too easy.

I watched her walk into her building. The streets uptown were empty. I waited for the light to turn green and made a U-turn around the center median from the far right lane. Ten seconds later, there was a patrol car behind me. Its sirens wailed and lights flashed. Holy Shit! I was getting pulled over again! I was still a little drunk, but not drunk enough to have missed a “No U-Turn” sign. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what I had done wrong.

It took a half an hour for the police officers to tell me I had run a red light by making a U-Turn from the far right lane. I guess that making a North/South U-turn is technically running an East/West red light, but it seemed like utter bullshit. I argued with the officer, raising my voice and demanding an explanation. He responded by threatening to cite me for speeding also, and rather than escalate the situation further I simply sat in silence. When he went to hand me the ticket, I yanked it from his hand and rolled up my window. I was going to fight this ticket tooth and nail. Only I never did. I just ended up paying it. Instead I decided that I was going to make Leah pay for all these traffic tickets…in orgasms.

Of course, this wouldn’t be an adventure in dating if there was any sort of positive resolution. Unfortunately, I never received anything from Leah. Several weeks later she called me to confront me about how I was threatening her and stalking her.

Uh, What?

To say it caught me slightly off-guard would be an understatement. Seriously, she called me out of the blue one afternoon and accused me of making threats of violence against her online and stalking her. I tried to joke around and tell her that this wasn’t really a good way to react to my not calling for a week, and she told me she was in touch with the FBI and several online companies who had told her that the threatening e-mails and phone calls were originating from my address. I laughed and asked if she was being serious or just fucking around, and she told me to expect some documents in the mail soon. I vehemently denied everything and pointed out all the flaws in her logic, but she was unwavering. She really thought that a) someone was out to harm her, and b) it was me. Good thing I didn’t bring the pot and condoms that night in May or I probably would have been looking at a rape charge, too. She told me off and instructed me to never talk to her again or she would call the police.

It’s been over two years later and nothing ever came in the mail for me. I have never received any documents proving my involvement in a conspiracy against her. I have not called or written to her. Once or twice she has sent me messages saying, “What’s up?” but I have not responded. This adventure in dating might actually have ended more awkwardly than the girl with the text message snafu (part 1 – part 2).

Until next time…

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