Bored, Lonely and Horny. When those three adjectives join forces in New York City, things can go from good to bad very quickly.
Let me explain.
I was sitting at home when the phone rang. It turned out to be a wrong number, but the man had such a sexy voice, we started talking. Over the next three hours, I thought I had met the man of my dreams. So much so, we made a date for the following evening.
When he picked me up, he didn’t look like the description he gave. In fact, he was missing a tooth. I hesitated about getting into the car, but shallow as I am, the fact that he owned a car in Manhattan made the missing tooth less of an issue.
As we drove to Sweet Tart in Chinatown, he was strangely silent – not at all the chatterbox he was the night before. Well, maybe he’s a tad shy I thought as I pondered all the day trips we would be taking in his car.
Suddenly he pulled to the curb.
Excuse me, he said as he left the car to retrieve something from the trunk. I turned around and watched him put a lit glass pipe in his mouth.
At that moment, on the corner of Canal Street and Crazy, I realized I was on a date with a gap toothed crack head I had met as a wrong number.
Back in the car, he was once again the fun and gregarious person I had gabbed with the night before. We laughed all through dinner and I did have a marvelous time with his drug-induced personality, but I was not about to play Nancy to his Sid.
Fortunately, he had forgotten where I lived, so I had him drop me off three blocks from my apartment. I told him I would give him a call – remember, he didn’t have my number, so I was safe.
The moral of the story: When you find yourself, bored, lonely and horny in Manhattan, please don’t answer the phone.