What is it about New York boys? I am still figuring them out.
It’s always about boys, she says. When you go out, it’s about boys. When you walk on the street, it’s about boys, I say.
Here’s a classical approach at a bar, one of my encounters in the city. I am standing a few feet away from my girlfriends. A young blond, semi-tall man approaches me with a wide grin. He says the typical thing. You are beautiful, why are you standing alone? But we end up having a decent conversation. He looks extremely bored and unenthusiastic with whatever drink he is holding. He refuses to accept this when I tell him. He is an accountant. What time do you have to be at work tomorrow morning? (It was a thursday and honestly I was hoping he would be leaving soon). He said he made his own time, still leaning on the counter. He introduced me to his cousin, who was visiting from…? You sure you don’t want another drink, he asked again. (Boys can be persistent). No (though later when he was no longer around I would). He wanted to know what Elle stood for. Just Elle. No, come on. I said, it’s just Elle (wide smile). We talked about writing. He said some interesting things (I can’t remember). He said I was interesting. Are you going to write about me tomorrow, he asked three or four times throughout our short encounter. I told him, no, definitely not by tomorrow.
He took my number and my blog name. (These boys, they like writing the blog name down. I find it interesting).
He may be reading this, I don’t know, though I’m glad he persisted that I write about him. I still haven’t figured these men out, what they want. Why it matters. Aren’t we all the same? Aren’t we all playing the same trite game, over and over? Why don’t we get tired of it? Why don’t we just say what we want?
Probably because they’re always different, the short encounters that you may not even remember the next morning.