Every day, I'm baffled by how Manhattan shrinks and expands itself. This morning, I was one insignificant body in a sea of corporate commuters, stuffed into a subway car with backpacks and briefcases and heavily cologned men. Now it was 10:15 p.m. on a Friday, and I'd managed to run into an ex. I had no plans but it was Friday and I needed some, so I decided to partake in my favorite no-plans weekend activity: reading at a bar. I chose a new bar this time -- a tiny, dimly-lit one in the East Village, with leather-cushioned barstools and extraordinarily poor airflow. Somehow, Logan chose this bar too.
Let me tell you about Logan: we dated briefly a year ago, after meeting at a Mexican food truck. He was behind me in line and offered to pay for my buffalo cauliflower tacos; I was very grateful. Even the food trucks in New York are ridiculously overpriced -- especially the ones that sell buffalo cauliflower tacos. So I gave him my number and we went from there. He wasn't my usual type: I tend to prefer disheveled, artsy, dark-haired men who look like they shower approximately once a week. Logan looked very clean, and blond, and worked at a crypto startup that I made him promise to tell me nothing about. I refuse to have conversations about cryptocurrency.
We had lunch together a week later, and I decided to fuck him that same day for two reasons: it was clear our values were radically different and would make a real, long-term relationship impossible; and I found myself hopelessly attracted to him. Yes, he was conservative and actively hated children and planned to accumulate as much money as possible -- but he was so funny. And self-assured. And had these broad shoulders, thick arms, expressive eyes. I wanted to see him naked, so I did: we went back to his 19th-floor luxury studio and sealed the deal on his kitchen counter.
Then, we began one of those situationships, where neither of us wanted to commit but both of us enjoyed the other's company -- and body -- immensely. I'd learned through much trial and error that it's very important not to let situationships last longer than two months. So after one-and-a-half, I sat him down at a cafe and explained that I needed to move on; he was very understanding about it; and I never saw him again. Until 10:15 p.m. on a Friday.
Logan was on a date. Probably a first date: I could tell that he was in full performance mode, gesticulating with vigor as he told his first-date stories. He hadn't spotted me yet, so I basked in my temporary anonymity and observed. The girl didn't seem charmed by his funny anecdotes the way I used to be. She was doing a lot of nodding, a lot of tight smiling, not much laughing. I saw Logan reach out a few times to touch her arm -- dutifully initiating that first-date physical contact -- and she seemed to shrink away from him. Can't win them all, Logan.
Then he noticed me. We locked eyes for a moment; I saw the flash of recognition in his gaze and he waved at me, smiling widely. I waved back. I didn't think he'd come over right away and abandon his date, but that's exactly what he did. He gave her some brief explanation -- "That's my cousin / coworker / strictly platonic friend," I imagine -- and made his way to me. I found myself pleased to see him.
"Hey, I think I know you," he said, pulling out the barstool next to me and planting himself down. "You're that funny blonde girl I dated for a minute."
I laughed. "And you're that trust fund boy I dumped at a coffee shop." He didn't mind being teased for his trust fund; I think he was a little proud of it. Plus, he had an unshakable self-confidence that made all types of mildly insulting jokes fair game. Including references to me dumping him. I hope.
Logan grinned at me, leaning forward. "I've been thinking about you, actually. I was on a date the other day at the MoMA and neither one of us could think of one smart thing to say. And I thought, huh. This date would be so much better with Calla. She loves this shit." I did; one of my most pretentious qualities.
"Aw. You've missed me. Were you with the same girl?" I motioned to his date at the other end of the bar, who was scrolling away on her phone. Swiping away, rather; I saw the unmistakable pink flame logo, the rightward sweep of a thumb.
"Nah, it was a first-date-then-ghost type of situation. As is this one. Fucking boring." I felt a twinge of guilt about my participation in the shit-talking of a woman sitting 20 feet away, whose date I was currently making intense eye contact with.
I broke the eye contact, looked down at my hands. "I think you should go back over there, Logan. You're on a date. Even if it is fucking boring."
Instead, he put his hand on my thigh. I looked at him again -- he was giving me those eyes. The ones he'd give before grabbing my ass and sticking his tongue down my throat.
I shook my head at him. "Disrespectful," I murmured, but we both knew I didn't mean it. That's how it was with Logan: he gave me permission to be a shittier, more impulsive person, and it turned me on. The temporary immorality was a rush -- and, for that reason, I could never pass the two-month relationship threshold with him. No, I'd go back to being good.
I cleared my throat. "I'm serious, you need to go talk to -- " I looked over at the table where his date was sitting and realized she was gone, along with her coat and purse. Jesus. I hadn't even noticed her leave, but she must have walked right by us. My shittiness was growing exponentially by the minute.
Logan looked over at the empty table and raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's convenient," he said, and then he was snaking his hand behind my head, and then he was kissing me. I couldn't help it: his lips were so soft and met mine with such hunger that I let a moan escape my throat. Public place Calla, my God. He reached down and pulled my barstool closer to his, then put a hand on my lower back -- tantalizingly low. I pulled away, searched his gaze for what was to come, and found it: I was going to fuck him.
I stood up, tucking my book in my purse. "Here's the plan, Logan. I'm going to pay for my drink. Then I'm going home with you," I said, all nonchalant. Maybe the tone would mask the wild, rapid heartbeat, the horny desperation in my eyes.
Logan laughed, then stood up next to me. "No, I'm going to pay for your drink. And then you're coming home with me." He walked off to the bartender, wallet in hand, and I giggled to myself.
And that's how I found myself back at his luxury apartment, marveling at his giant marble bathroom and its incredibly high-tech bidet. You could wash all angles of your ass with that thing. I freshened up a little -- water under the arms, between the legs, the usual routine -- then stared at myself in the wall-to-wall mirror. "This is a mistake," I whispered to my reflection. She didn't seem to care.
I rejoined Logan in the living room, stretching out on his L-shaped sofa. He put his arm around me, kissing me long and slow until I was fully engulfed in some kind of lustful stupor. He pulled away, walking over to the balcony's sliding door. "Wanna come out?" he called, stepping outside. "We can smoke if you want." I'd forgotten this about Logan: he got bored easily. Liked to spontaneously switch locations, and friends, and hobbies -- women too, I imagined.
I met him on the balcony; we stood, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing out at Manhattan's jagged skyline. I attempted to engage in some small talk. "So how've you been for the past year?"
He smiled. "I've been alright. Working, running, traveling. Making a shit-ton of money, then spending it. The usual." I nodded along -- sounded like Logan. "Although my sex life has been much worse."
I looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah. I haven't been inside you all year. It's been torture." He had a note of sarcasm in his voice, of course, but there was some real conviction there. And it fucking got me; I felt the throb of desire, the flood of moisture below.
