About 2 months ago, on a windy Halloween night awaiting a bitch called Sandy coming to town, my friends and I went to 230 Fifth. That’s an address AND a club. You can’t argue with originality.
Looking my best as Audrey Hepburn in breakfast at Tiffany’s (again, originality is non-discussable) I met an astronaut. Sort of.
Now, orange one-piece-uniforms may be a turn-off in certain situations, but when they have a NASA-tag on it, this girl’s knees go weak… And yes, I do realize how many felons now will request massive amounts of markers to write ‘NASA’ on their prison gear.
Meeting guys in bars is one thing. Meeting guys at 230 Fifth is… well, dubious. It’s known to be a hook-up place so you can’t have your expectations set too high. After exchanging numbers and some ass-checking from his part, we went our separate ways, in like I have no clue what he did, but I went for some pulled pork at Max Brenner’s.
Living just 5 blocks away from each other – convenient when you are in great urge of a spoon of sugar or a cup of milk – we eventually went on a date after which he kissed me at my front door in a way that I still don’t know how I resisted asking him up. Soon after, though, we’d hit it off in a non-romantic yet very physical way. Also known as ‘pleasant’, ‘pleasing’ and ‘mind-blowing’. For the past 2 months, he has been featuring in so many scenarios in my bed my mind, I could write a book about it that would make Fifty Shades of Grey blush.
I met him before I read about all the rules women are supposedly to obey to. I can honestly tell you that I’ve broken – and breaking – every one of them.
But at least now you know that I’ve seen Armageddon once too many…
Can’t argue with that either.
PS:My friends and I still call him ‘the astronaut’. People on the subway tend to look really baffled when they ask me ‘how things are with the astronaut’, so I’m not planning on changing that any time soon.