Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Open Letters to My New York Tricks

I see you after midnight, towards the back of the bar, talking with someone. My friends are ready to go, but I’m not, so I walk up and said hello. I tell you you’re the Hottest Guy in the Bar and we talk.

After awhile, you excuse yourself to the bathroom and not long after I follow you and soon we we’re making out in the downstairs hallway near the exit. PDAs aren’t my thing, but what the hell I’m in New York and I’ll never see these people (or you) ever again. In the cab back to my place I kiss your neck, your chest, lifting your shirt to kiss your stomach.

For hours we share each other, and I fall asleep in your arms. In the morning you walk with me and the dog to a West Village cafe. You buy us coffee and we sit on the step. We exchange numbers and say goodbye and now you leave messages, calling me by my full name in your French accent, saying you want to see me again. But there’s something I should have told you: I’m No Good at This Type of Thing. A relationship with you, or with anyone, is the last thing I need right now.

I’m a bit damaged goods. Can’t you see that?


First I see you standing against the wall. You’re handsome. And blonde. A short time later I see you again, this time near the dance floor and as I walk by you say hello.
O God, are you Australian? As you talk, I look at your blue eyes, your wet lips and tell myself, That fucking accent. Don’t do this. Then you kiss me, right there, and not long after we’re walking back to my place.

You’re funny and smart and that goddamn accent and by the time we get to the apartment our hands are all over each other. At 5am we finally convince ourselves to get some sleep, and the next morning my exploration of your body, your sweet smell and soft skin continues.

And now I’m on the bus back to DC and can’t stop thinking about you and then you text and we’ve already got these inside jokes to each other and I let myself wonder what it would be like if you weren’t just vacationing here. And you’re asking me when I’ll come back to Sydney and it’s probably time to tell you: This has been a fun little game, but you know, I’m not good for anyone right now and this could never possibly work out.

I’m a bit damaged goods. Can’t you see that?

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