A Shag Before Shopping

I had a one-night-stand on Saturday night (no, not with Charo).

My sister was spinning in Park Slope at a club called Caddyshack (wonder where that thought originated...bet they couldn't pull Charo...) and I was meant to see her when she began her set at about 1am.

What good is a night in Park Slope though without hitting the men's bars first, particularly since Caddyshack was expected to have at most three men, my friend and I included.

There's the argument, however, that the boys you do find at lesbian bars are all quality.

Whatever the hell that crap means. I wasn't looking for any quality shit (then again my most current actions wouldn't really justify an emphasis on quantity either).

Doesn't really matter actually since we never made it there. By 1am I was trashed and had my hands down some guys pants whose name I honestly forgot after about ten minutes. But what's a name really? [insert existential dialogue here]

He pulled the whole, 'I live nearby', routine, which I actually found quite inviting at the time. From his attire of sloppy jeans and torn shirt I expected some tiny Brooklyn first-floor railroad apartment with four roomates huddled around a Playstation.

I forgot though what he had mentioned earlier, this nameless guy: he worked in real estate.

Anyone who works in real estate here is loaded.

He lived in a top floor apartment with one full wall as a window overlooking most the rest of Park Slope. Absolutely stunning, large one-bedroom with art and sculptures that looked like they were actually worth something adorning pedestal and walls.

The clincher came the next morning (and so did he - sorry had to say it...).

I awoke abruptly and made like I had to get home quick, which was partially true. Although the subway system is convenient going into Manhattan, transport throughout Brooklyn is still antiquated and frustrating. To get home I needed to catch a train back into Manhattan and then back out to Brooklyn to Williamsburg - terribly annoying.

'Coffee before you go?' said Noman.

'No,' I said, 'I have to get back to Williamsburg.'

'That would take you nearly 90 minutes!' said Noman.

'I know,' I said. 'No coffee for me, I gotta go.'

'Just stay and have some coffee, I'll drive you home.'

'You will!, but what about parking, won't it be a bitch when you come back twenty minutes later?' (sometimes my pleasant nature confounds me...)

And here it is...

'That doesn't matter. I have my own parking space.'

(has car in New York = money, lots of money; has own parking space in NY = fucking loaded)

Continuing with the actual point of the story, along the car ride home I discussed my potential plans for the rest of that Sunday.

'You know Barney's is having their annual Warehouse sale today,' he said, and that was the end of all my other plans.

After brunch with my flatmates, my sister and I madly sprinted to the sale, and they weren't kidding about warehouse.

The merchandise was in the basement of an unmakred building and all the clothing was piled into boxes. My first thought was Barney's mafia, which was reinforced when I noticed all the friendly sales clerks with Scappaticci printed across their name badges.

Mafia or not, I scored a hot tie, a sweater, a Penguin dress shirt, and a Juicy Couture yellow-striped polo. Beautiful.

The greatest moment came with a couple pairs of John Varvatos jeans though.

Flashback: On my mere second day in NYC I attended a going out of business sale at Helmut Lang off Wooster in SOHO (expensive part of town).

Being high fashion the clientele was high beauty and like backstage at a fashion show the beauties freely tried on the racks and boxes of Helmut Lang for sale. Men, mostly European, carelessly stripped to their briefs and tried on clothing throughout the store. Overtaken by the passion of it all, I did the same.

Now at Barney's I once again became overwhelmed with the fury of the sale. I hid myself beside a rack of suits and started ripping off my pants to try on my Varvatos jeans. I didn't notice the small woman folding clothes near me. She could have simply mentioned a better place to try on clothes, but instead she hollered quite loudly and within range of a good number of people:

'Sir, you cannot take off your pants here!'

I couldn't help but laugh hysterically to the staring crowd.