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Holoholo%20Girl
Taking a Bite, Part Two

September 28, 2006





When I got to New York City, I tried not to plan too much. I only

had two days there, and I was determined to go with the flow. But one

thing I really wanted to do was visit the Museum of Sex—MoSex, for

short. Their current exhibits included “Peeping, Probing & Porn:

Four Centuries of Graphic Sex in Japan” and “Stags, Smokers & Blue

Movies: The Origins of American Pornographic Film.”

Yeah, that’s my kind of culture.



But my first night in Manhattan, Ashley took me to a hip Latin joint

called Rosa Mexicano. After a few frozen pomegranate margaritas, I

headed upstairs where I encountered a two-story piece of art by David

Rockwell, in which rows and rows of little human figurines jutted out

as if diving from tiers of miniature waterfalls on a wall of blue glass

tile. To say the least, that’s not what a person generally sees after a

several shots of tequila.

On 9/11, while much of the city was in tribute mode at Ground Zero,

I checked out The Village and developed an eye infection. Naturally,

the best thing I could do with a seeping eyeball was to find a dive

bar, fast. So I groped my way to a place called Doc Holliday’s, where

some guy asked what I thought of a sign they’d made offering a “two for

one” deal, only with a sketch of the Twin Towers as the Roman numeral

“two.”

I peeked inside and saw a lineup of bikers and the requisite

slouching old drunk in the corner. Cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon lined the

bar top, and a Big Buck Hunter Pro video game sat blinking on the

opposite wall. I told the guy it didn’t look like anyone was offended,

and decided to go in.

I soon made friends with a large, septum-pierced, bald man in a

leather jacket who had just finished a three-month stint on a merchant

ship. He asked if I liked Cuban cigars, said he had just smuggled over

a bottle of absinthe and then bought the entire bar a couple rounds.

The bartender was a charming, attractive young girl gearing up to

emcee an open mic night later. Soon a bespectacled man in his early

40’s with a slight Hispanic accent came in holding a book by Dennis

Prager, called Happiness is a Serious Problem.

“I’m fucking wasted,” said the man. “Sorry.”



Who knew New Yorkers were so nice?



Spectacles then proceeded to tell the bartendress, with whom he

declared he was in love, that he just hasn’t been able to make himself

happy lately. He cited various romantic problems.

“Well, if you can look yourself in the mirror everyday and not spit,” counseled the leather sea man, “you’re okay.”  



And then later, just to mix it up a little, I fell in lust with Kiki.



Kiki De Montparnasse is a shop for a “luxury and lifestyle brand

that celebrates intimacy and inspires the romantic

imagination”—basically, an upscale sex boutique. A tall, dark and

handsome man in a three-piece greeted me at the door, and soon after I

was offered assistance by a beautiful salesgirl in lingerie and heels.

My imagination was inspired alright, with stuff like hand-sculpted

obsidian glass dilettos ($1,750), tension set cock-rings with 5mm cubic

zirconia ($795), a sparkling rose quartz anal plug ($795) and a handy

little Sony DVD Camcorder with lightweight tripod ($715).

And the dressing rooms—velvet draped boudoirs, really—came equipped

with three settings for lighting: Before, During and After. Precious!

The next day featured more of the same, and flew by in a flurry of

shops, bars and interesting people. But then I realized I only had a

half-hour to get back to Ashley’s before running off to Philadelphia to

see Jen, who had just moved there.

In a panic, I crammed into the subway at rush hour, and somehow

landed in the middle of a filming of Dancing With the Stars at the

Lincoln Center. Taking a detour in the opposite direction, I stopped to

watch another filming of some sort of cop show.

By the time I got to Penn Station, it was a zoo of untamed

business-attired beasts. In Pennsylvania, Jen’s mom schooled me

immediately on pronunciation—“It’s Lanc-as-TER, not LAN-cas-ter”—and

Jen’s dad drove us by various Amish settlements.

While I was busy formulating my theory that the “tobacco” the Amish

were “drying” in their huge warehouses was something a little more

illicit, Jen expressed anxiety over her decision to move back to the

East Coast. Her brother and I convinced her it was all about

establishing connections again—making friends and all that. Jen was

doubtful.

Later, we sat at the bar of a newly opened, fancy restaurant called

Christopher’s. As her brother and I looked on, a cooing Jen was being

hand-fed what looked to be a rather succulent seafood risotto by an

obliging stranger seated next to her.

Yeah, we’re really worried she’s not gonna be able to make any new friends.



Anyway, I never did make it to the MoSex. And I opted to buy a

fabulous pair of shoes instead of that amazing “upscale” vibrator at

Kiki. But still, I had a fabulous time. And I believe I’ve discovered

three syllables more harmonious than the word “vacation.”

Return trip.







Samantha Campos is back in the saddle again but would love to know where her horse went. MTW