Sex in the Title - a Comedy about Dating, Sex, and Romance in NYC (back when phones weren't so smart)

by Zack Love

  Christophe backed down and proposed a compromise. “You can go in weet everybuddee but zee short guy,” he said, clearly referring to Heeb.

  “Either we all come in, or are we all go to Pangaea,” Carlos replied, with debonair equanimity.

  Carlos’s challenge surprised Christophe, who was unaccustomed to being declined in the one situation where he normally did the declining. Christophe stood silently, unsure how to respond.

  “It’s no problem. Have a good night,” Carlos said, graciously, as he began to turn away with his crowd. Carlos and his gorgeous gang of girls were prepared to prove – in front of the large queue watching the showdown – that they considered Heeb cooler and more important than Christophe, and the doorman preferred to avoid such a humiliation.

  Christophe stopped him: “OK. Come on.”

  A vindicated joy lifted the posse, as they walked into the warm and festive club with five hotties alongside them and Carlos leading the pack. The many attractive people at the glitzy soiree suddenly seemed like mere background scenery for the charming story of five men meeting five women, thanks to Lucky Chucky. They checked their coats and then Narc, who knew the club well, brought them to a more secluded seating area upstairs where the two groups of men and women could mingle. As they followed Narc, the men and women began to pair off. A few minutes later, they were all seated upstairs.

  Narc had already begun talking to Jade, a twenty-one-year-old model of Thai-Swedish extraction. They chitchatted for a while, and, after a few drinks, Narc confessed that he had dated only a few Asians in his life, much to his parents’ disappointment. “I think it’s the rebel in me…So my parents would probably view a Eurasian as major progress,” he noted with amusement.

  “I never cared about race,” she said. “And if my parents did, I wouldn’t even exist. But they’re very liberal. They were pot-smoking hippies in the sixties. Speaking of which, do you have any weed?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Narc replied with a playful grin. As he pulled out some marijuana from his blazer pocket.

  “You know you still haven’t told me what you do for a living,” Jade remarked lightly, as if she’d been cheated out of some vital information. Narc had been subtly and effectively evading the question.

  “I’ll tell you about my early mid-life crisis after we finish this,” Narc replied with a mischievous smile.

  Next to Narc, Trevor was getting acquainted with Dawn, a redheaded artist who was, at five feet eleven inches, the tallest of the five women. “Do you come here often?” Trevor asked, despite his aversion to such safe and boring conversation starters.

  “Let’s make a deal,” she began, with an ironic smile. “Why don’t we avoid all topics that don’t have something to do with politics or religion?”

  “Why is that?” Trevor asked, grinning with surprised relief.

  “Because when I’m not painting I work as a cocktail waitress at expensive banker parties, and I’m supposed to just look pretty and make small talk the whole time. They actually tell you to avoid religion and politics in any conversations that come up. So that’s exactly the sort of thing that you and I need to talk about right now.”

  This was divine music to Trevor’s ears, as was the revelation that she – like Trevor – had studied history in college and was now exploring different eastern philosophies. Within minutes, they were discussing Zen Buddhism, yoga, and meditation. After about ten minutes, Trevor also mentioned his newly discovered homosexual identity, in order to avoid misleading Dawn.

  “Just my luck!” she said, rolling her eyes ironically. “Oh well…Hey, I actually have the perfect guy for you!” she added, taking Trevor by the arm and leading him away from the group and towards the bar. “He’s a total hottie, almost as tall as you, built like a Michaelangelo sculpture, and an amazing painter…We met at my yoga studio…He’s bartending here tonight.”

  When they reached the bar, Dawn introduced Trevor to Luigi, an Italian male-model type who was every bit as handsome as Trevor had imagined him to be. Luigi was a few years older than Trevor but had all of the boyish flamboyance of an adolescent youth – a flare that came out in everything he did, whether it was pouring a drink, flirting playfully with everyone around him, or moving energetically to the rhythm of the music playing in the background. The gracefully muscular Luigi wore black, tight-fitting clothes with an earring in each lobe. He had his black hair closely cropped to his skull, except for an ice cream swirl of hair that was gelled to peak at the left corner of his head. Dawn could tell that the two men were drawn to each other physically and conversationally, and she slipped away soon after her matchmaking services were complete.

  Back upstairs, Carlos was seated next to Raquel, the Brazilian model he had approached outside of the club. Her eyes were fixed on Carlos, who was speaking to her in Portuguese about his perfectly magical year in Brazil. In keeping with his strictly healthy diet, Carlos never had more than one glass of wine when he went out. Raquel sipped her second caipirinha.

  Evan sat next to Jess, a twenty-three-year-old blonde bartender by night and aspiring actress by day. Upon learning of her ambitions, Evan shared his unusually in-depth knowledge of every film in which Delilah Nakova had had any role. Jess and Evan had a nice enough rapport, but within a few hours, he informed her that he and Delilah had plans to get married in six months. This was, he explained, why he knew every detail about her personal biography and her Hollywood career. He was just out to support the boys, and, if Jess could encourage her roommate, Angelina, to show more interest in Heeb, he would talk to Delilah about introducing Jess to her talent agent at IAA. The combination of alcohol and the powerful delusions guiding Evan’s convincing act led Jess to believe Evan and eventually encourage Angelina to show more of an interest in Heeb.

  When everyone had first entered the club and begun to pair off, Evan asked Heeb to indicate his preference between the only two women who had not yet started talking to someone. Heeb chose Angelina. At five-eight, she was the shorter of the two roommates and his Jewdar concluded that she was not a member of the tribe. As he introduced himself to the first fashion model he had ever spoken to (without the deceptive benefits of online dating), a thousand insecurities ran through his mind: “She’s thinking how she’s a full inch taller than me…My bald spot looks so shiny she could use it to fix her makeup…Even if a miracle happened and she somehow wanted to sleep with me some day, I’d have to tell her that my penis was attacked by a cat. What am I thinking? I have zero chance with this woman. How can I get out of here?”

  “Do you come here a lot?” she asked.

  “Every now and then, when there’s a good party,” Heeb replied, trying to sound as if he belonged to some “in crowd.” Angelina remarked that she had never seen him there before and then went on about the clubs and restaurants she frequents. “Why is she still talking to me?” Heeb asked himself. “She’s probably just being polite. She doesn’t want to ditch her friends, who all seem to be hitting it off with the rest of the posse. Because if she ditches the ugly guy, they’ll all look bad. That’s the only reason she’s still talking to me. I have to get out of this somehow.”

  They started up the stairs with the others, who were following Narc to a more secluded area in the club. Heeb’s thoughts continued: “How do I escape? The guys won’t let me out now. Maybe I can just turn around on these stairs, and pretend that I got lost in this crowd of people coming down. But I’d look like the biggest wimp. I’m finally going out with a fully functional penis that I’m prepared to use, and I chicken out.” He forgot his worries for a moment to appreciate the perfection of the figure walking up the stairs right above him. “And look at that. How can I just leave that? Evan and Chucky would be beyond pissed, if I just bailed out after they got me this far. I can’t just bail out. I have to Kojak it somehow. I have to be funny. Keep her laughing. Women like a sense of humor. They’re evolutionarily programmed to seek comfort, and laughter creates a feeling of comfort in this crazy world
, even if it’s totally baseless comfort. I just have to be funny. Make the most of the strongest factor in my SQ. Make her laugh so hard she goes blind and can’t see bald spots any more. That’s my only hope.”

  After they were seated with the rest of the group and Heeb and Angelina had downed a few drinks, Heeb loosened up a bit, and became increasingly bold with his humor strategy.

  “I really love this city. There are so many beautiful women here…My dating life has never been better.”

  “Are you popular with the ladies here?” Angelina asked, trying to conceal her surprise.

  “In fact, I am.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s a commonly known fact that the world is run by forty-seven Jews. Not the guys with the black hats running that famous camera store on Forty-seventh Street, which – by the way – is the only street in Manhattan that was named after the forty-seven Jews running the world. No, the world is run by forty-seven Jews who look just like me. So when women discover that I’m Jewish, they realize that I’m one of those forty-seven guys running the world.”

  “Really?” Angelina chuckled.

  “Yeah. So if there’s anything you need – a new landlord, a green card, a change in American foreign policy, an increase in the Federal reserve rate, a change in French fashion trends, a cover story on Time Magazine – just let me know and I’ll talk to my forty-six buddies about taking care of it.”

  “That’s fabulous. I’m so glad I met you. Do you guys like Italian Catholics? Will you look out for us?”

  “We luuhhhvv Italian Catholics!” Heeb proclaimed with élan. “Especially the ones like you who want to launch a fashion label. We generally have a real soft spot for models trying to make career moves. And we luuhhhvv Italy.”

  “Really? Have you been?”

  “I took a vacation in Florence a few summers ago. The problem was that I couldn’t take anyone seriously.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everything was like a Hollywood movie. Everyone was beautiful, the food was incredible, the language was beyond charming – even though I didn’t understand a word…I mean, you could sit there and read me the phone book in Italian and I’d get turned on.” Angelina laughed, which was music to Heeb’s ears. “So when the Florence traffic policewoman is trying to tell you that your rental car is illegally parked, you just can’t take her seriously. She looks gorgeous. She sounds like she’s singing the most irresistibly seductive song you’ve ever heard, and really what she’s saying to you is that you’re going to get towed and fined if you don’t leave that spot.”

  Angelina’s giggles came with increasing ease, as the cumulative effect of all the laughter and the alcohol made everything seem irresistibly funny.

  “See that? You’re laughing so hard that you’ve forgotten that you ended up with the fat ugly bald guy in the group,” Heeb said. Angelina burst into chuckles. “And by the way, I’ve got more than enough hair on my back to make up for the scalp.” She burst into more laughs. “And if that’s not enough, there’s some in my ears too. They keep my eardrums warm in the winter, and in the summer they make for great earlobe accessories.”

  She was now convulsively in stitches.

  “Speaking of body decorations, I luuhhhvv your belly piercing!” Heeb said, looking at the gold ring in the center of her slim, tan waist. Despite the arctic cold, Angelina had opted for a skin tight, black tube top that ended just above her belly, on the assumption that a warm cab, a winter coat, and a short wait to get into the club was an adequate frosty weather strategy. Heeb was still reverently staring at her belly when Angelina finally caught her breath from laughing.

  “Do you really like it? You’re just saying that so that you can check out my belly!”

  “And what’s so bad about that? I mean, didn’t you get that belly piercing so that people would check out your belly?”

  “No. I just thought it would look cool…Do you have any piercings?”

  “Actually, I do,” Heeb replied.

  “Where?”

  “My appendix.”

  “Huh?”

  “I wanted to be the first guy with a pierced organ. And the appendix is a totally useless organ anyway, so I figured why the hell not?”

  “That’s pretty original,” she replied, amused.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve outdone every piercing fanatic out there. The only problem is when I have to go through metal detectors at the airport.”

  Angelina burst into laughs again, and then managed to say, “Don’t you have to take it out occasionally for a cleaning?”

  “Nah. I figure I’ll just get it removed when my appendix bursts. It’ll be a two-for-one operation, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ewww!” she said, in entertained disgust.

  “I’ll bet your last date didn’t have a pierced appendix!”

  “No! And he didn’t pay for my drinks either! Cheap bastard,” she added, in amusement. Heeb was now immensely hopeful: Angelina didn’t object when he had impliedly conferred “date” status on their situation by comparing it to a prior date of hers. “And he was some rich investment banker guy,” she added.

  “Oh, that’s not just right. The man should always pay.”

  “Do you really think that?”

  “It’s the male tax.”

  “The male tax?”

  “Yeah. The tax that men have to pay for not having to menstruate every month. Or risk getting pregnant. Or deal with the physically stronger sex in a macho world…Women have to put up with all of that stuff, so the least we men can do is pay the male tax and get the tab.”

  “You are so sweet, Sammy! What’s your sign?”

  That question made Heeb certain that he was getting somewhere. No woman cared to ask about a man’s sign unless she had some interest in him.

  “You don’t actually believe in that astrology stuff, do you?” he playfully asked.

  “It’s the only real science out there, Sammy.”

  “I guess three billion women can’t be wrong.”[10]

  Angelina laughed, until she was interrupted by Jess, who said that it was time for a ladies’ break in the bathroom. “Oh, OK. I’ll be right back,” she said to Heeb.

  Upstairs, not far from where Heeb was waiting for Angelina to return, Narc and Jade had finished the marijuana and were regularly breaking into silly, boisterous laughs. “All right, so when are you gonna tell me…” she asked, between giggles.

  “Tell you what?” Narc asked hysterically.

  “What you do for a living.”

  “You really want to know?” Narc said, cachinnating. “Really really bad?”

  “Yeah. Really, really, really bad!” she chortled some more at their silliness.

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” he said, laughing anew. Gasping between more giggles he added, “I fuck.”

  “You fuck for a living?” Jade convulsed even harder. “That’s really, great,” she said, between laughs. “Is your employer taking resumes?” Narc burst into laughs even more, as if he was realizing for the first time how absurd his life had become. Narc’s guffaw prolonged Jade’s laugh attack.

  “No, we don’t use resumes. Only dimensions,” he replied with amused delight.

  “Oh…Well how are mine?” Jade said, perking up her small breasts a bit, as she broke into hysterics.

  “I think I can get you an interview on the casting couch,” he reassured her, and they both started laughing stupidly.

  Jess and Angelina returned from downstairs.

  “Come on, let’s go downstairs and groove a little,” Angelina said to Heeb, as Jess walked back to Evan and gave him a wink.

  While Angelina’s suggestion confirmed Heeb’s optimism about the night, he wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of dancing downstairs. Despite Yumi’s patient tutoring and all of his dance lessons in New York, when Heeb danced his body usually jerked in odd directions, a few beats too late. This fact would be all the more painfully conspicuous at Bungalow Eig
ht, which didn’t have a club license that permitted dancing, and consequently had only a few people dancing in a rather central location, when the bouncers weren’t enforcing the no-dancing rule. Even worse, Heeb would have to move in the midst of competing males with far higher SQs, and they would undoubtedly think that Angelina was easy prey, dancing with that uncoordinated nerd.

  Fortunately, their dancing was cut short by a fortuitous encounter. But unfortunately, the encounter was even more embarrassing for Heeb than the dancing.

  “Oh my God, I know you! I know you! I swear to God we’ve met,” a cute Indian woman exclaimed to Heeb, as he was doing his signature boogie-woogie movements alongside the graceful, rhythmic motions of his gorgeous dance partner.

  Heeb stopped to look at her. She did look vaguely familiar, but the dimmed lighting, the alcohol, her different hairdo, and the fact that he had last seen her about eight months ago made her difficult to place. Still dancing, Angelina took some interest in the situation, since the young Indian woman was very pretty and seemed convinced that she knew Heeb, who was also struggling to recall how they knew each other.

  “I remember! I remember!” she declared, clearly proud of her good memory, despite her own tipsy state.

  “How?” Heeb asked, now genuinely curious.

  “You were that nude model for that painting class I took, last spring!”

  Heeb’s face reddened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s you. You were that nude model. And you got this erection while we were all painting you, remember? And then you tried to pick me up at the deli across the street after class…You don’t remember?”