I was braving Mama's bar in the East Village for the first time after I'd stopped dating one of its bartenders. A couple slurricanes later and I was good to go. You--a regular there and sometimes the DJ--and I got to talking. We'd met several times before, and I'd met your baller girlfriend. She was nowhere around, and being friendly I asked you her whereabouts, genuinely interested. It wasn't code for nasty shit. You started to kiss me, and I pulled away saying over and over (cause it kept happening) "You have a girlfriend." And FINALLY, you are all like, "Oh, she's at home, she told me to not come home alone." So I'm not an idiot, I was like, shit, this dude's gonna get down tonight, hope he finds someone to do it with him and his girlfriend. And in my heart of hearts I earnestly wished you well in your quest. Then you pull this on me: "We're both very attracted to you." Thanks, I mean WHAT? You didn't stop there: "She told me to bring you home." Situation got real. The sex pamphlet in elementary school does not tell you how to handle surprise-threesome-request attacks. Even if I wanted to, my place was off limits (thank goodness) cause we have a bunkbed. Deterred not, were you. I was wasted and didn't know what steps to take to ward you off, aside from the polite "No, but thank you," approach. I told you I had to split (and fucking fast), and you insisted on walking me to Union Square where you kept pulling me aside along the way and kissing me. You were a weird ass violent kisser man, I feel like signing up for that threesome woulda been like signing up for an introduction to poorly staged S&M.
I was so thrown off that I got on the L instead of my train and ended up in Williamsburg where I immediately started talking to 4 Europeans for an hour.
If you see this, do you know David Blaine?
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