“So what brand of toothpaste do you use?”
Mostly, I got pound-signed. Except one guy answered, “Crest.”
And I said, “Really? And why not Colgate or Gleem?”
And he said, “Because I like the taste of Crest better. And doesn’t Colgate have MFP? I don’t know what MFP is, you see. So I’m really mistrustful of that. It’s like Retsin in Certs.”
This caused me to laugh.
“You know,” he said, “You have an excellent British accent. Except it falls away when you laugh. You need to work on that.”
I said in my normal voice, “Shit. But you bought it up until the laugh?”
He said he did, indeed.
“Good, because I almost never laugh,” I said.
He said, “That really is something you need to change about yourself. Do you believe in changing yourself? Or are you one of those tiresome people who prefer to stagnate?”
I said, “I grew up near a pond, so I understand the dangers of stagnation.”
He said this was very good news. Then he asked, “So why haven’t you asked me how big my dick is? Everybody else wants to know. Aren’t you curious?”
I said, “Okay. How big is your dick?”
And he said, “I thought so. So you really are just looking for sex. You’re not looking for anything more than sex. What was I thinking? Calling this line looking for a deep, personal connection.”
“That was a trick,” I told him.
“Or treat,” he said.
We went on like this for an hour. Back and forth. Until finally he suggested that we meet. “Just for a drink,” he said.
We met the next day, at the Winter Garden, downtown in the World Financial Center. I wore jeans and a yellow oxford and he was in a crisp Armani suit. He wore a gold pinkie ring, which I commented on immediately. “That,” I said, “is something Donald Trump would wear.”
He said, “Take that back.”
I smiled at him and said I wouldn’t because it was the truth.
He said, “I think I may need alcohol in my system in order to spend any more time with you.”
There was a Chinese restaurant in the courtyard on the first floor, so we sat at the bar in front of a long aquarium filled with orange fish. He ordered an Absolut and tonic, with a splash of Rose’s lime juice. I ordered the same thing, in a tone of voice suggesting my surprise that we both drank the same drink. What a coincidence , my eyes said. It seemed essential that I appear to know exactly what I was doing.
Pighead was extremely—and there is no other word for it—slick. Even his thick, black hair was so glossy, it looked nylon. He was charming and witty and he smelled of Calvin Klein Obsession.
I told him about my life in advertising, impressing on him my lack of formal education beyond elementary school and my success at an early age. These were the two things about myself that I could display for others to admire. I could not talk about my parents or my childhood or my adolescence because these things would seem insane to other people and I would appear an iffy risk, especially to a mortgage banker.
Pighead checked his gold watch and told me he had to leave.
I did sort of feel that the rest was mere formality and we should just move in together. I was too new to New York City to understand that many people must have felt this way about him. That I was not unique. A handsome banker is not hard up for a date in Manhattan, ever.
• • •
On my bookcase at home, there’s a photo of Pighead trying on a leather jacket I bought for him one Christmas. I can be seen behind him in the mirror taking the picture. I’m wearing a ridiculous red Santa hat and my wire-framed nerd glasses. In another picture, I’m swimming in some motel pool in Maine. It was the Lamp Lighter Motel, I remember. It was fall and the pool was freezing cold and had orange leaves floating in it. Leaves and beetles. This was one of our first road trips. We’d known each other for about a year. I remember that after getting out of the pool, we went back to the room and I
Mostly, I got pound-signed. Except one guy answered, “Crest.”
And I said, “Really? And why not Colgate or Gleem?”
And he said, “Because I like the taste of Crest better. And doesn’t Colgate have MFP? I don’t know what MFP is, you see. So I’m really mistrustful of that. It’s like Retsin in Certs.”
This caused me to laugh.
“You know,” he said, “You have an excellent British accent. Except it falls away when you laugh. You need to work on that.”
I said in my normal voice, “Shit. But you bought it up until the laugh?”
He said he did, indeed.
“Good, because I almost never laugh,” I said.
He said, “That really is something you need to change about yourself. Do you believe in changing yourself? Or are you one of those tiresome people who prefer to stagnate?”
I said, “I grew up near a pond, so I understand the dangers of stagnation.”
He said this was very good news. Then he asked, “So why haven’t you asked me how big my dick is? Everybody else wants to know. Aren’t you curious?”
I said, “Okay. How big is your dick?”
And he said, “I thought so. So you really are just looking for sex. You’re not looking for anything more than sex. What was I thinking? Calling this line looking for a deep, personal connection.”
“That was a trick,” I told him.
“Or treat,” he said.
We went on like this for an hour. Back and forth. Until finally he suggested that we meet. “Just for a drink,” he said.
We met the next day, at the Winter Garden, downtown in the World Financial Center. I wore jeans and a yellow oxford and he was in a crisp Armani suit. He wore a gold pinkie ring, which I commented on immediately. “That,” I said, “is something Donald Trump would wear.”
He said, “Take that back.”
I smiled at him and said I wouldn’t because it was the truth.
He said, “I think I may need alcohol in my system in order to spend any more time with you.”
There was a Chinese restaurant in the courtyard on the first floor, so we sat at the bar in front of a long aquarium filled with orange fish. He ordered an Absolut and tonic, with a splash of Rose’s lime juice. I ordered the same thing, in a tone of voice suggesting my surprise that we both drank the same drink. What a coincidence , my eyes said. It seemed essential that I appear to know exactly what I was doing.
Pighead was extremely—and there is no other word for it—slick. Even his thick, black hair was so glossy, it looked nylon. He was charming and witty and he smelled of Calvin Klein Obsession.
I told him about my life in advertising, impressing on him my lack of formal education beyond elementary school and my success at an early age. These were the two things about myself that I could display for others to admire. I could not talk about my parents or my childhood or my adolescence because these things would seem insane to other people and I would appear an iffy risk, especially to a mortgage banker.
Pighead checked his gold watch and told me he had to leave.
I did sort of feel that the rest was mere formality and we should just move in together. I was too new to New York City to understand that many people must have felt this way about him. That I was not unique. A handsome banker is not hard up for a date in Manhattan, ever.
• • •
On my bookcase at home, there’s a photo of Pighead trying on a leather jacket I bought for him one Christmas. I can be seen behind him in the mirror taking the picture. I’m wearing a ridiculous red Santa hat and my wire-framed nerd glasses. In another picture, I’m swimming in some motel pool in Maine. It was the Lamp Lighter Motel, I remember. It was fall and the pool was freezing cold and had orange leaves floating in it. Leaves and beetles. This was one of our first road trips. We’d known each other for about a year. I remember that after getting out of the pool, we went back to the room and I
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