by Sami Lukis
A friend offered to set me up with a handsome doctor one time when I was visiting New York. He lived in Florida but he was willing to fly to Manhattan to meet me. I didn’t know much else about the guy, but the mere fact that he was willing to fly interstate for our date was enough for me to agree. When you’re almost forty and single and you haven’t been on a date in a while, you’ll give anything a go. So what if he lived 15 000 kilometres away from me? That was insignificant, a minor problem that would be resolved after we met and fell madly, passionately and hopelessly in love.
And as I sat in my yellow cab en route to the bar of the Soho Grand Hotel, I thought to myself, ‘Well, look at you. You’re in frickin’ New York. You’re going on a date with a hot American doctor. You are so damn fabulous right now. What an amazing story this will be to tell the grandkids!’
The Doctor was already waiting in the bar when I arrived (✓). I could immediately see that he was, in fact, very handsome (✓). And when he stood up to greet me, I noticed that he was tall and he looked quite fit (✓). But about two drinks in it became crystal clear that this guy was not my Doctor Love, when he randomly embarked on some crazy story about how much he loved cocaine and how often he used blow and how much fun it was and blah, blah, blah (✗).
To be talking about illicit drugs so openly with a woman he’d only just met seemed bizarre. Maybe he was nervous, maybe he was just a complete dick, but dare I say alcohol wasn’t the only mind-altering substance the Doctor had enjoyed that evening. As he went on and on and on about his penchant for the white powder, I just sat there thinking, Well, this is certainly not the story I want to be telling my grandchildren one day.
I’m sure this approach works for some of these Cocaine Cowboys, but when a guy offers me coke or thinks it will impress me, it’s pretty much on par with him telling me, ‘I’ve got herpes’, ‘I have a tiny penis’ or, ‘I really do think it’s reasonable that women are paid 40 per cent less than men, across the board’.
Yeah, that’s a no from me.
New York City was also the perfect backdrop for one of my most romantic dates ever, even though that particular date took place . . . in a train station.
I really should preface this story by confessing that I love everything about New York. The sights. The sounds. The smells. The shopping. The shoes! I mean, how can you not? It’s the only city in the world with a department store shoe floor so huge it’s got its own post-code and express elevators!’Cause when a girl needs shoes, she needs ’em stat. Am I right, ladies?
Native New Yorker Lady Gaga once said, ‘New York City is like the husband I never married.’ Well, your guy gets around, Gaga, because my relationship with the Big Apple feels exactly the same! I grab any opportunity I can to spend as much time with that dirty big spunk as I possibly can.
In fact, I love The City so much, I set up my own travel company just so I could host tours of New York and show off my man to other women (they all fall madly in love with him too, by the way).
On one of my frequent jaunts to NYC, I enjoyed a brief but juicy affair with an Aussie guy. We hit it off at a party hosted by mutual friends in the West Village. Despite living stateside for years, he’d maintained both his distinctive Aussie accent and his Aussie sense of humour. He had also managed to pick up a charming dose of New York ‘swag’.
A guy with swag has just the right amount of arrogance. He’s extra confident but not quite cocky. He doesn’t have to be the best-looking man in the room. He’s just comfortable in his own skin, with a ‘life is good’ vibe. The Aussie guy’s swag was sitting somewhere on the scale between Jerry Seinfeld and Jay-Z, with a touch of Hugh Jackman thrown in for good measure. He was cool and confident and clever with an understated sexiness that I found really attractive and very intriguing.
So when Mr Swag asked me out on a date and told me we were going to a train station, I was initially underwhelmed. I mean, come on! Manhattan is a city overflowing with spectacularly romantic first-date options. What about a moonlit stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge? A bike ride and a picnic in Central Park would be nice. Sunset cocktails at a fabulous rooftop bar with breathtaking views of the Empire State Building? That’ll do me just fine, thank you very much. But a train station. WTF?
However, the moment Mr Swag led me onto the Main Concourse of Grand Central Terminal, I got goosebumps. I looked up at the celestial mural on the ceiling. And I got it.
The place wasn’t just a train station. It was magnificent.
I soaked up every moment as we strolled arm in arm through the iconic terminal and Mr Swag gave me the guided tour. He showed me the Whispering Gallery, where an architectural wonder allows you to whisper sweet nothings to each other from opposite sides of the room. He told me about the legend of the Kissing Room, a place set aside in the glory days of train travel for arriving passengers to enjoy that first passionate embrace with their sweetheart. He took me to a hidden bar, the Campbell Apartment, where we cosied up on a plush leather lounge in the corner and I drank champagne and he ordered a Rob Roy. It felt like we were in the New York of a bygone era. And when Mr Swag kissed me under the legendary gigantic Tiffany clock in the middle of the Main Concourse with hundreds of people madly rushing around us, I felt like I was in a movie. I’d seen this exact scene on the big screen many times before.
There is an undeniable air of romance about Grand Central Terminal and that day will always rate as one of my all-time favourite first dates. It also set the tone for a memorable Manhattan love affair.
With no job to rush back to at the time, I decided to extend my stay in New York and see where my holiday fling with Mr Swag might lead. He even invited me to move into his cute little studio on the Upper West Side, where I quickly made myself very much at home. Life in the Big Apple with my new man (and his sexy swag) was every bit as fabulous as I imagined it would be. While he was at work, I’d take a class at YogaWorks, check out the latest exhibition at the Guggenheim or shop for groceries at Whole Foods. At night we’d grab dinner at one of his favourite restaurants on Amsterdam Avenue or catch a movie at the AMC on 84th Street or meet his mates for drinks on the Lower East Side. As I realised how comfortable I felt in this incredible city, I secretly started to wonder how difficult it would be to transport my beloved furchild, Lolli, over from Sydney if I decided to relocate. Permanently. Our Manhattan love story was moving full steam ahead.
Until it unexpectedly ran off the rails a couple of weeks later.
I’d arranged to meet some girlfriends downtown for dinner. It was going to be the first time Mr Swag and I had spent a night apart since I’d moved in. But, less than five minutes after I walked out the door and left him alone in the apartment, I received a bizarre text message from him. It appeared to be some kind of poem or song verse, describing a burning desire to see someone they hadn’t seen in a long time and yearning to be with them again. Mr Swag had signed off with, ‘see you shortly x’.
As I sat there on the C train, I read that message over and over and over, desperately trying to understand what it meant. I didn’t recognise the lyrics and it seemed a little OTT that Mr Swag was ‘yearning’ for me, considering I had left him only a few minutes ago.
Then I realised. Oh my god. This message was intended for someone else. And I wondered, had Mr Swag invited a visitor over for a speedy rendezvous while I was downtown with the gals? Those romantic lyrics made it sound like a passionate reunion was very much on the cards. I was crushed. And confused. And mortified to think that he’d invited someone over for a quick shag the second he had the apartment to himself.
Maybe I had misread our situation.
Had it been wildly premature for me to assume we were exclusive? Was he not getting enough sex? Was he still lovecrastinating over his recent ex? Had she been on the scene the whole time?
I’d heard that the dating scene in New York was brutal. But this was next level Hunger Games shit! Apparently men in New York like to have a few prospects on the go at all times. I just didn
’t realise that would still be the case when you were cohabitating with someone.
I decided not to go home and confront him straight away so I just replied, ‘Hey, I don’t think this was meant for me. Have fun x’.
It took him a little while to reply, but when he did it simply said, ‘Of course it was meant for you.’
I didn’t believe him.
My fabulous Manhattan love affair suddenly wasn’t feeling quite so fabulous. After dinner I thought about checking in to a hotel, but I decided to go home and face the music (or in this case, those mysterious song lyrics). Thankfully, Mr Swag did not have company when I got home. But I couldn’t believe it when he looked me straight in the eye and swore that the message was meant for me. Even though it made absolutely no sense.
I really wanted to believe him and carry on with my new life plan to move to Manhattan and live happily ever after on the Upper West Side. But something didn’t smell right. My trusty women’s intuition was pleading with every single cell in my body to accept the fact that he was lying to my face.
That New York swag I’d found so sexy when I first met him? Suddenly not so sexy. His swag was apparently a little less Hugh Jackman and a lot more Leonardo DiCaprio than I realised. So I told him that it had been lovely to meet him and I thanked him for his generous hospitality but I thought it would be best if I moved out the next morning. And I did.
I was heartbroken. Even though the fling had only lasted a few weeks, I think I’d been more emotionally invested in the idea of being in a relationship in New York than I was in the actual relationship itself. I’d enjoyed my time with Mr Swag but I’d fallen truly, madly and deeply in love with Manhattan, the city of my dreams.
But when I got home to Sydney, I felt like New York had chewed me up and spat me out. I realised I didn’t have the chutzpah to survive that kind of fucked-up dating scene.
I didn’t hear from Mr Swag until about six months later, when I was back in New York. He sent me a text which read, ‘I hear you’re in town. Would be great to hook up. If you’re up for it.’
Wow. From the most romantic first date I’d ever been on to possibly the least romantic invitation I’d ever received.
‘If you’re up for it’? Seriously? That’s a little too much swag for this girl to handle.
I had my first ever overseas hook-up in my early twenties, when I was living in Japan.
It was my version of a gap year, but instead of backpacking around Europe or temping in London, my yearlong sabbatical consisted of working on a spectacular golf course at the base of Mount Fuji and partying in Tokyo every other weekend. Totally random, I know. But I thought I was all kinds of fabulous.
One night, as I was making my way through the heaving dance-floor of the legendary Shibaura nightclub, ‘Juliana’s Tokyo’, I suddenly found myself grinding with a smokin’ hot American marine. And, oh my Lordy yes Janelle, the marine could move. Dancing with him was basically like having sex, fully clothed. And he was gorgeous. He had a touch of LL Cool J about him, with flawless skin and dimples that sent me into overdrive. He was insanely fit and he spoke with a sexy tough-guy accent.
That random, amorous dancefloor meeting with the marine led to a six month relationship and the kind of steamy, sexy, unforgettable affair that every woman deserves to have with a foreigner at least once in her life.
However, it was all a bit of a nightmare whenever we wanted to play hide the sushi, because he lived on the marine base with a gazillion other marines and I was sharing a teeny tiny apartment with a nosy flatmate.
Neither of us had any money, so we couldn’t afford a fancy hotel. The cost of living in Japan was astronomical back then. (I remember apples cost five dollars each in the supermarket.)
But we’d heard about these places called love hotels, where you can rent rooms by the hour. Now, please trust me when I tell you it’s nowhere near as seedy as it sounds. Love hotels are actually a bit of a secret institution in Japan. Often used, rarely spoken about. Walls in most Japanese homes are (literally) paper thin, so if you and your new bf really need some privacy, you just zip off to the local love hotel for a quick shag. It’s also the best place to go if you don’t want to be seen, if you know what I mean. Yes, love hotels are a handy option for horny people having hot affairs. Oh, and for poor tourists like us who couldn’t afford a room anywhere else.
I’m not the least bit ashamed of my night in a love hotel. It turned into one of the funniest nights of my life. Everything about the love hotel was discreet. No reservation system. No front door. No reception desk. The layout of the place was like a one-level country motel, with every room facing directly onto the carpark. You could drive up and park right outside your sneaky little sex den. You know the room is vacant if the light is on above the door. So we just drove up, opened the door (no key, no security code) and strolled right in.
Okay, so this is where it gets a bit weird. Not even one minute after we walked into the room, the phone rang. That was creepy. Was someone watching us? Could they see us? How did they know we were there? A voice on the other end of the phone asked if we would like the room by the hour or overnight. We said overnight, thanks. (Hey, it might be weeks before I’d get to see my smoking hot marine again!)
The voice instructed us to put the cash payment into a little canister next to the phone and then to put the canister into a transparent tube that travelled from the desk up into the roof (like they have at some grocery stores). And then whooshka – our cash disappeared up the chute and into the roof in 0.5 seconds flat.
And that was that. Domo arigatou gozaimasu! (Which translates to ‘thank you very much’ or in this case, also, ‘now go shag yourselves stupid, you crazy kids’.) We were left to enjoy the comfort of our romantic little love nest for the next fifteen hours.
The room was bigger than most regular hotel rooms I’ve stayed in and it was immaculately clean. Spotless. Phew! Considering what actually goes on in those rooms, it was good to know they took their cleaning duties seriously (although I have a sneaking suspicion I would have run a mile if anyone had cast a blue light over that bedcover).
There was an enormous bed (of course), a big Jacuzzi, a double shower and a gigantic TV. (Okay, Japanese porn. Don’t. Things get crazy weird in those movies.) So basically, the room was equipped with everything lovers might need for a night (or an hour) of passion. I wonder if there was even a secret vending machine somewhere that spat out Fifty Shades–style whips and nipple clamps (asking for a friend).
The one thing we did not expect to find in our little Nippon love shack was the karaoke machine and two microphones taking pride of place next to the TV. I mean, who wants to be singing fucking karaoke, when you’ve come here to, well, fuck? We laughed it off and didn’t think about it again and we got busy doing what we went to the love hotel to do and then I fell asleep in my hunky marine’s giant, muscly, gun-toting arms.
I was woken up at around 2 a.m. by a terrifying noise. It sounded like a piercing scream or a wailing cat or some kind of wounded animal. Or a woman in serious trouble, in the next room. I quickly woke my marine in case he needed to go save a life off-duty. We both listened for a while and then we realised it wasn’t a woman in trouble or a helpless animal. It was an old man. Singing karaoke. Very loudly. And very, very badly.
He was singing in Japanese and his voice was pretty crackly but he was belting out that tune like he was on stage in front of 80 000 adoring fans. Grandpa’s Viagra had well and truly kicked in. Was it a pre-or post-shag serenade? I couldn’t tell. There was nothing in his voice to give it away. Perhaps it was mid-shag. Oh my god, that would have been even funnier.
I’d somehow found myself in one of the most ridiculous ‘how the fuck did I get here’ moments ever. The absurdity of the situation hit me, as I lay there with my American marine, in a hotel for sex pests, listening to some old (probably naked) dude serenading his lady love, with the worst karaoke tune ever. I’ve never laughed so hard in all my life.
The
strangest thing about it all was that I could hear randy gramps in the first place. The love hotel had thought of everything to make your sex-escape as comfortable and anonymous as possible, except for soundproofing the walls. I mean, seriously. Of all places. A hotel where people specifically go to have sex. Soundproofing is kind of essential, don’t you think?
I was clearly more in lust with my sexy American marine than I was in love with him, but I was still heartbroken when the day came for me to move back to Australia and finish my University degree. I was so distraught about leaving him that I briefly considered quitting university altogether and starting a new life as an army wife on the military base in Okinawa. Thankfully, sense prevailed and I moved back to Brisbane to complete my studies. We promised to keep our love alive and tried our very best to overcome the challenges of distance. But this was the early nineties, pre-email, WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook. No sneaky Snapchat to help keep the spark burning. Back then, staying in touch with a lover in another country took enormous effort and determined dedication.
We spoke on the phone occasionally, but it was so expensive, so we wrote letters to each other, every week. My heart would race as I’d search through the mail, desperately hoping to spot that little envelope with the familiar crooked handwriting and the US stamp and military seal.
If it was my lucky day, my marine would include a photo with his letter. It was usually a shot of him standing in the jungle in his army fatigues, all sweaty and shirtless, sixpack proudly on display, brandishing a very large weapon.
My marine was sex. On. Legs. (With a gun.)
Under all that perfectly chiseled rock-hard beefcake, my delectable marine was also a big softie. Sometimes he’d send me a mixtape – a carefully selected and personally recorded compilation of his favourite R&B love songs: R. Kelly, En Vogue, Shanice, K-Ci & JoJo, Keith Sweat, Boyz II Men. And I thought that was about the most romantic thing ever.
