IN WHICH I RESIST A GERMAN TAKEOVER — AT LEAST, FOR NOW.
Max wanted to explore the East Village, so we paid the bill and strolled uptown. The fall chill forced me to zip up my black leather motorcycle jacket, which I wore over a tight black sweater, denim miniskirt, black leggings and almost five inch heeled Guess ankle boots, which Max’s height easily absorbed. He had his arm around me, like we’d been together for ages. I felt light and happy and what was that feeling? Ah, yes — young.
We visited a few bars and he drank some more; I held off — I had no interest in getting tipsy considering I was already walking on my tiptoes. A sprained ankle would be so geriatric and so not hot. By this time we were beyond chummy, our faces almost touching in our still-riveting conversation. When we ended up in a dark booth in the back of a virtually empty bar close to Last Call, we were both ready for the nuzzling, kissing and then hot makeout session that had been predicted the whole evening.
In his OKCupid profile Max had answered the question “What are you doing with your life?” with “Revolution — all day, every day.” Which, along with his vibrant personality and taste for adventure, foretold an equally exciting sexuality. But as kissers go, it turned out, he was neither the worst nor the best: serviceable, systematic, uncreative, efficient: Well, German. There was no hint of revolution — nay anarchy — here.
But what Max lacked in creativity he made up for in passion, crushing me to his chest and amusingly pleading with me to “watch a documentary or something” at my apartment. Uh huh, sure. I demurred — it was so late, and anyway I wanted to develop our relationship; we agreed to see each other again. For the time being that big, hot throbber pulsing in his now cruelly skinny jeans wouldn’t be gaining any ground — or grind.
It wouldn’t be the first time an American had the last word over a Battle of the Bulge.
Yours truly,
