Run-In
I was sitting outside at The Coffee Shop on Sunday across from Andy when Gorgeous walked by. Ah, Gorgeous. ...Wait. EW! Gorgeous!
I was dating this guy I called Gorgeous last spring, I think it was. He looked like a cross between Viggo Mortensen and Steve McQueen. I fell for his super-controlled scene. His model-type face, crystal blue eyes, glamorous East Village apartment, his well-dressedness and his hottie-about-town MO. He was so not my type. He like, worked on Wall Street or something for fuck's sake. Maybe that was part of the attraction.
He made an appearance at a party of Choire's I'd invited him to looking like hell. Though he was wearing an old mock turtleneck (*shudder*) and a bad hat covering up the bed head he gained from having slept all that day nursing a hangover from the night before (he'd been out until six in the morning, he'd said, club hopping with his brother and I was sure the night involved cocaine and/or ecstasy and probably some hookers or at least head in the bathroom to the muted sounds of drum and bass), he was what my mother would call a dreamboat.
Andy H was at that party. "What happened to him again?" he asked me after we left The Coffee Shop and went in hot pursuit of an Anna Nicole Smith Halloweener costume for Chris, along with Mark and Rannie.
The night of that party back in April was actually the beginning of our demise. Gorgeous was the biggest flake I think I've ever met in my life. I mean, there are flakes, but then there are flakes who are assholes. The kind of people that whose flakiness is an extension of their utter arrogance. He wasn't a stand up guy, by any stretch. In fact, he had stood me up twice. So that was ended it for me. I won't stand for being stood up. Who does that kind of shit, anyway?
So, I see him walking down the street towards me as I'm sitting there with my coffee and french fries. He's impeccably dressed in a tan fall coat, perfectly pressed. He's got his little glasses on and he's talking on his cell-phone with one hand and carrying some fancy looking shopping bags in the other. Whatever was in there was definitely 'spensive. I realized I was smiling and pointing right at him before I'd made the choice to do so. When he stopped to say hello there was of course, little to say. "How've you been" and "good to see you" was about the extent of it.
It's funny when you find yourself calling out to people that you once knew, even though you know it would be perfectly fine not to; that you could just not say anything and they'd walk on by not seeing you and you'd avoid those stupid and awkward face-to-face moments. What is that about? Wanting to give meaning to something or validating the fact that you did once have some sort of thing or fling however meaningless it was? I don't know.
As he stood there, an ickyness settled over me. I remembered that Shming, after having met him once, likened Gorgeous to Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho character. There was something wrong with him. He was cold and creepy and shady. He only ate power bars for dinner.
Also, I find comfort in remembering that he had a penis the size of my pinky finger.
