The Playboy

Aka the musician, whom I had met on the Thursday night booze cruise. We had left off exchanging numbers and discussed hanging out that Saturday night. And to my surprise, he actually texted me early Saturday evening, with enough time to plan. He said that he was having a pre-party at his apartment in Union Square, before heading out, and invited me to come over. Not wanting to show up to this party alone, I recruited Russian Rocher to come with me. Except when we arrived the "party" turned out to be just the Playboy and his two friends, a couple. I immediately cringed and felt badly for Russian Rocher, who was now going to be the 5th wheel. But when one says party, I think a group of people, not a double date.
Now this guy had seemed very nice and amicable when I met him and he still was at this point. But the Playboy qualities were already glaring. I knew that he was in his early 30s and his only job was being a musician. It turns out he lived in the biggest one-bedroom apartment I had seen in New York City. It was decorated very well, though not at all my taste (black walls? no thanks) and he made a reference to his cleaning lady within the first few minutes. Also the couple friend--a surgeon and his 22 year old model girlfriend. The whole thing was ridiculous, and I could tell Russian Rocher wanted nothing but out, but I had no choice but to see this through. He all sat around drinking and they discussed all the different clubs we could go to--which ones would be good tonight and how most would inevitably be bad. Luckily another one of the Playboy's friends stopped by for a bit which brightened things up. He was covered in tattoos a had a black eye. He was apparently a waiter at Sushi Samba, and started to complain about all the B&Ters there on the weekend. I was alarmed; I had been there the night before with Jersey and his trashy Long Island friends. I had until then been unaware that it was a B&T scene, and this guy was total right.
Sidenote-- for those outside of the NYC area, B&T is short for "bridge and tunnel". It means someone who travels into New York via a bridge or tunnel, but more specifically from New Jersey or Long Island. Qualifications to be B&T are: the Jersey Shore look, ie lots of makeup and tan for girls and gelled hair and tan for guys, lots of Ed Hardy, an interest in "passe suburban culture" ie PF Changs and top 40 radio hits. They are often loud, rude and obnoxious. The group I had been with the night before could be considered mildy B&T--they had chosen a passe restaurant in the City, as Jersey had always done. The girl was a tan idiot and the guy had gelled hair and a gold chain. Afterwards, we had walked over to Bleecker St. Out of all the bars we could have chosen, they settled on the equivalent of a pizzeria uno, because they "were tired of walking". You get the picture.
So I could only hope that he hadn't noticed me. Lucky for me, who worked at the one on Park (I was at the flagship 7th Ave) so I was off the hook. However he did continue with a pretty humorous story that the B&T guys have routinely gotten upset with him for staring at their girlfriends fake boobs. When they call him out on it (because what B&T guy doesn't love confrontation), he acts hurt and says that he is gay. The B&T boyfriend is then ashamed and tips big, at his girlfriend's urging. Well played.
Unfortunately this guy decided not to come out with us, even though I could tell he had an interest in Russian Rocher. Instead she was back to being the 5th wheel, as we all squeezed into a gypsy cab to head to the West Village. And again, despite the plethora of bars in that area, we somehow ended up at a sit-down restaurant, where the couple had had their first date. It was quiet and romantic and at his point I knew Russian Rocher wanted to kill me. Halfway through, she decided she had had enough and left. She asked if I wanted to go with her, but I knew if I left now, I had no chances with this hottie and decided to stay. Luckily the couple left after the restaurant too so it was just the two of us. We headed to Meatpacking, to one of his favorite spots, SL. We strolled past the line and walked right in. Once inside, he literally knew every attractive female bartender and I tried not to roll my eyes. We stood at the bar and he talked about growing up in New York City, his parents' summer house in the Hamptons, and the trials of being a musician. He did not ask one single question about me. Of course at the time, I didn't pick up on this because he was still somehow very charming, and really fucking attractive. I was drawn to his lifestyle, which was foreign to me, a la Ibanker's. So I did end up back at Union Square with him that night, but I refused to do anything but make out with him, which he was surprisingly ok with. In the morning he said he wanted to see me again and slapped my ass as I walked out the door.
I was happy with the way the night had gone, until I had to walk to the subway, looking like a total one-night stand. I was in a cocktail dress and heels, with makeup smeared across my face. This was my payment for not leaving with Russian Rocher the night before. I walked with my head held high but I have never been leered at so much. It was fitting that this was my final weekend subway ride back to the Shwick.

The Playboy and I saw each other once more after this. We had been exchanging texts all that week so the next Friday I ended up meeting him at his apartment after a night out, where I once again did not hook up with him. He didn't take it as well this time, as I caught him rolling his eyes. In the morning I couldn't sleep because he was snoring. I rolled around to wake him up, but he had no interest in listening to me discuss how "scuttle" was my new favorite word nor how I had had a dream that he had a backyard with a walrus living in it. When I left he was polite but not as friendly as the time before. We continued to text for a few weeks. I had given up on it but he would send a friendly one and then when I tried to get a dialogue going he would become very brusque. Finally one day I had had enough and asked him if he wanted to go get a drink, though I knew it was pointless. He made up an excuse and I never heard from him again. He was extremely good-looking but that does not make up for being a total narcissist. It's a shame I didn't get another night out with him because I know it would've been an interesting scene, but is that worth whoring myself out for? I think not, Playboy.