Months ago, I was invited to a pool party—at a hotel in Times Square—for Spring Break ’09, baby! It was upscale in that fourteen-dollar-passion-fruit-martini-served-with-a-‘tude sort of way and trashy in that end-up-with-a-stranger’s-penis-in-your-hand-in-a-swimming-pool sort of way. I brought my grad school friend Libby—with whom I met Chaz of ‘say hello to Hector for me’ fame—and hoped to have a deliciously awkward run-in with Chaz. My best friend prepared me in jest: “Remember to say hello to Hector for me.” It was a bust in that regard, but we did bump into Chaz’s friend Colin, who was the initial connection. He blatantly ignored me, yet talked to my friend—how low.
I was getting my period and was super horny to the point where earlier that evening I was like, Fuck, I could fuck anything in sight and therefore I will fuck nothing because I have absolutely no decision-making faculties in this state. I deliberately and methodically got off before I left my apartment, promised myself that no matter what happened I would return home alone, and left my apartment repellently messy as to deter myself from succumbing to the temptation to invite anyone over. Upon stepping foot in the pool, I was like, Omg, I can feel the water jets from all the way across the pool! I contemplated whether they were special, spring-break-specific, hot-tub-style water jets or whether it was possible that if I were this horny all time, swimming (i.e., standing in a pool) would always feel this amazing. As the night winded down, last call approached and passed, and people settled with those they had paired up with for the evening, I frantically realized that it was imperative for me to meet someone to add to my queue of guys to-be-used on another occasion.
I casually positioned myself among a group of people, pretended I was in a Biggie music video, and effortlessly found a stranger to make out with, after a brief interview consisting of “What is your name?” and “Whom do you know here?” He would do. I mounted him, stroked his cock, and was shocked by how huge he was—too big for me, too girthy. He touched me and commented, “Wow, you are so wet.” No shit. “Like, we are in a pool, but you are wet.” Yeah, thanks for the clarification, I got it the first time, since, ya know, I’m the one who is dripping into the pool as limes float by me and drunkards bump into me. That was the sum total of our conversation. Besides the part when he said he thought he would have trouble getting out of the pool (He was only wearing boxer briefs, so potential material for awkwardboners.com, but since we were in a simulated rap video, I would have to rate his boner as ‘understandable.’) I told him to stand next to the side of the pool so I could throw him a towel. Not an act of discretion. More like feigned decency—belaboring a formality, while stating the obvious. When he finally exited the pool he announced, “We’re in the clear.”
I contemplated calling him thereafter, but considered where I would put his over-sized cock and it all seemed so complicated. I suppose it is nice to get a size preview—to be able to size someone up before you have to make a committal sexual decision. I mean, what are you supposed to do when you take off someone’s pants and are like, Oops, fuck, I have no place to put that; sorry, this won’t work out—would you like to be referred to a larger friend?
I called my best friend to relish the irony of my handling a penis that was too big for me, after expecting and almost hoping to bump into Chaz. We decided that, from now on, anyone who has a penis that is too big for me is to be referred to as a ‘Hector.’ As in, “I made out with Mike, but decided to forgo sex because he was a total Hector.”
me: i joined nerve, a hipster dating site
where you meet “interesting” people
who live in Brooklyn and don’t make any money
me: but like it’s better than yuppies who “work hard, play hard”
me: i just can’t have sex with people in striped shirts who wear cologne and hair gel
OMG, so this weekend i ran into Hector of “say hello to Hector for me” fame
I bumped into Hector (that’s how I refer to him) on the street (in Midtown), but he was on his cell phone, and since he didn’t see me, I pretended not to see him. The sighting with a lack of interaction was quite satisfying—validating. A few days later, I went to the LES to meet up with a group of preppy, Ivy League kids at Spitzer’s. Libby came with me, and when we entered the bar, upon appraising the dresses-and-stilettos scene, I thought, “God, this is what the Lower East Side has become? From tenements to table service.” Spitzer’s is a low-key, unassuming, wood-paneled, no-nonsense beer bar: the wine bar of beer bars—a beer bar crafted for beer snobs and inhabited by social snobs. Libby spotted him in the crowd, planted in plain view, an accessory to the “scene,” his pumped-up plume prominently displayed beneath his muscle-hugging t-shirt. She claimed, “I know him—from that pool party.” I looked him over and it clicked: once again, Colin. I craned my neck to survey the area, and there he was: his cheesy smile painted on, the salt of the earth, Hector!
I inspected him from afar, and when I thought at least one of them had seen me, it was a question of who was going to be the bigger man. Cleary I was. I sauntered across the room and casually tapped him on the arm. He was unmoved. I considered that it was a busy bar and maybe he thought he accidentally got tapped. I tapped him once more, waited, and gave up. My tap was unmistakable. Even if he hadn’t noticed me, Colin surely did, from across the room, and failed to acknowledge my presence, once more.
Discouraged and enraged, I slunk back to my section of the room. Who the fuck did they think they were ignoring me? The sequence of events invoked an article I read for Developmental Psychology about “cutting and being cut,” meaning, how the biggest insult when you are a middle schooler is failing to acknowledge others. Middle school.
I tried a different approach, more comedic but obscure enough to go legitimately unnoticed: I exclaimed, “Libby, let’s pretend we are cripples!” We put on our best crippled act to no avail. We hunched over, slapped the backs of our hands on our chests, and flailed manically. Still, nothing.
I had had enough. I walked up to him directly and confidently. Made small talk like it meant nothing to me. I was so poised and convivial that it disarmed him. I mentioned I had bumped into him on the street the other day, but he hadn’t noticed me because he was on his phone. He questioned, “I was on my phone? I don’t have many friend,” to which I retorted, “I didn’t think so.” He stood stiff and aloof, clumsily straining to find his words and estimate my sentiment, as I stood there tossing off witticisms and not giving a fuck. Bemused by my charade, he couldn’t figure out how to extricate himself from my captivity—or if he wanted to. Like the night we met, only this time I was winning because I was making a fool out of him and he was irresistibly uncomfortable. Amazing to have someone who thinks he’s hot shit cower in my presence—to throw him off with my undying niceness. I eventually got bored with his reticence and dismissed myself, claiming I had to get back to my friends, to whom I gave the initial report.
Later in the evening, I was approached by his ugly friend whose opening line was: “Will you buy me a drink?” Not even a name and already a request—a demand, almost. Disgusted, I said, “Isn’t that a little rude to ask?” He replied matter-of-factly; “No, I want a drink.” I eyed his group of friends; “Can’t your friends buy you a drink?” He held up the contents of his hand for me to see; “Yeah, but I already have a drink.” Indeed, he did. “Then why did you ask for me to buy you a drink?” “Because I want another one.”
What!?! Is this a game? The adult version of a prank phone call? Now that caller ID is ubiquitous, the format of or forum for such antics might have switched to in-person. Forgive me, but I never received the memo. I eyed his friends, once more, and they were giggling in the corner, glancing at us furtively. Surely, Hector put him up to this. Desperately compelled by his fast-approaching, all-out rejection, ugly friend offered to buy me a drink,
I was not having it. Emboldened by ugly friend’s audacity, I approached Hector: “Do you think I’m such a slut that I would fuck your ugly friend? Did you put him up to this?” Defensive, he replied, “Honestly, I had nothing to do with that. He is Brazilian and he just does that to girls. He didn’t even know about [points from him to me, indicating our one-time physical union].” A dissatisfying response, what one should expect from someone who claimed not to know who Hector was after summoning his existence.
As long as we were being honest, and as long as he was too timid (certainly not too polite) to announce that we had had sex (as if that were news to me), I decided to play the Hector angle one more time: “So, you really don’t know who Hector is?” “No, I have no idea; I said that as I left?” “Yes, you did.” “Maybe he was your doorman.” “My doorman is not named Hector.” “Could it have been Carlos?” Yes, because to a d-bag from BU, who is straight-outta-Boston, every Hispanic man is mandated to be named Hector, Carlos, or Jose. If you must know, my doormen’s names are Miguel and Joel. I pressed, “So, you really weren’t referring to Hector from Monsters of Cock?” Nervous laughter and a shrug, “I mean, I really don’t think I have a Monsters-of-Cock-grade cock.” Interesting, after all, his cock was quite large. Maybe not Monsters-of-Cock-grade, but porno-worthy, for sure. Maybe my friend was right; maybe guys really don’t know.
The best part of this situation wasn’t the brazen confrontation nor the fact that when I texted my best friend, to inform her of the sighting, she replied, “Your life is becoming like Sex and the City;” it was the specific location where the run-in occurred. Spitzer’s just so happens to be catty-corner from Babeland, the sex toy store from which the majority of my “machines,” including my vibrator, hail. So apropos. Like a good opportunist, I took advantage of the coincidence: “See that store across the street, Babeland [points out of the window]? That just so happens to be the sex toy store where I got my vibrator. A few hours ago, that store would have been filled with girls buying toys. Would you have thought it was a store full of cripples?” “Huh?” “Well, at the end of the evening, after we had sex, I pulled out my vibrator and you said you felt like you were fucking a cripple. If that store was filled with girls buying vibrators, would they all be cripples?” He considered the prospect and laughed; “Did I say that?” Um, yes, yes you did. I’m not sure if it is more fucked up that he said that or that he didn’t remember saying it, implying that such impudence is so routine for him that it slips unnoticed.
He said he was appalled that he had crossed so many social lines, but he thought it was funny—and didn’t remember it. I went in for the kill: “What would you think if I told you I have a sex blog and you are featured in it?” Smile, you’re on candid camera! He laughed, and then he paused, when he realized I wasn’t laughing with him; “Wait, do I have a fake name.” “Uh-huh, your pseudonym is Chaz.” “Chaz?” He let out a hearty laugh, and I smiled sweetly; “So, how do you feel about your blog notoriety? The entry has become quite a sensation among my friends. If only I had a tape recorder to record this moment.” He replied quizzically, “Well, I don’t know,” then cockily, “Maybe it’s flattering.” HA! What a d-bag! As if I write testimonials about guy who tell me I fuck like a cripple then impede upon my getting off! It suddenly became compulsory that I pass on the link to him. Steal his innocence. And maybe even wipe that smug smile off his face.
By the end of the night, I had him wrapped around my finger. My friends were leaving and I had to run before we concluded our conversation. He actually seemed sad that I was leaving. I was almost tempted to ask him to come home with me so I could add another part to my story. A scheme only the Camilles (from NYC Prep) of the world—the Blair Waldorfs (from Gossip Girl) in training—would be impassioned or enterprising enough to orchestrate. I, on the other hand, did not want to catch myself in the same trap I did the first time—baited by my own cheeky cleverness. We feverishly hugged goodbye, rushed by my friends’ imminent departure, and I overstated how wonderful it was to see him again. Fervent and somewhat puzzled, he agreed. As if it were a joyous reunion—serendipitous at that. And, with that, I left, elated and fairly positive that I could have had him for the night.
Charlie: what a bizarre like
this entire situation
me: of course, now i have to pass on the link to him.
me: i think i am sending Hector the link to my blog
i told him about it
Daria: haha nice
you said hello to him
me: yes, indeed, i did
MY MESSAGE TO HIM:
Enjoy your internet immortalization:
HIS REPLY TO ME:
Speechless. Utterly speechless. So you want to go on a date? This sarcasm and the fact that I am checking facebook at 9:30 in the morning most likely add to my all around douchiness. But I truly am shocked as to how much effort went into that. I completely forgot about the cripple and michael j fox comments, those are priceless. I actually wrote a vile and disgusting, yet hysterical poem about the first girl I had ass sex with; it has become somewhat of a treasure amongst my friends. Anyway, thank you for this morning cringe/laugh.
-Say hello to hector
HIS TRULY TASTELESS COMMENT ON MY BLOG (SERVING TO CONFIRM HIS DOUCHEBAGGERY):
From Chaz Michael Michael on say hello to hector for me, part two
Genie–thank you for being so honest. I want to be honest with you: i HIV have HIV. Cheers.