Many New York women give up on meeting Mr. Right and look for Mr. Rich. He may be old, unattractive, boring, but he always has one very important quality – a big, fat, huge, always ready… AMEX. Now I myself haven’t given up on love just yet… but in the meantime, until that comes along, I wouldn’t mind a little sugar. That is, until Mr. X completely turned me off the idea…
This post is specifically inspired by a particular man, let’s call him Mr. X. When I first met Mr. X, I was quite the damsel in distress. One of my best friends (Lindsay) and I decided to take the trip to Bonnaroo in Tenessee to check out the scene and hang out with some friends of ours playing there (don’t get your panties in a twist, I’ll post about all that later;)
We left around 2am, drove through the night and got in Tenessee sometime in the early afternoon. We stopped at a gas station to refresh (sexy, I know) and showed up at the venue. The time before when we went, the band had a hotel room and we met them at the hotel, then rode into the venue on the tour bus. This time they were on tour so they flew in, and didn’t have a bus. Lindsay talked to Yel (the bass player), and he said our passes were at the Holiday Inn artist check-in. Before you start thinking we are ghetto and into Holiday Inns, you should know that Bonnaroo is in Manchester… in other words, BFE (butt fucking Egypt) and Waffle Houses and Holiday Inns are straight up luxury. We got to the artist check-in, and big surprise – the passes weren’t the right ones. Some dinky little bracelets, rather than the all-access passes we would need.
We decided to figure it out later, head over and try to catch up with the band or at least one of their assistants. When we got there, we were told over and over that we weren’t allowed backstage without proper credentials, and we couldn’t get ahold of Chris (Chris doesn’t get a code name because he’s a douchebag). It was miserably hot as fuck, so we ducked into a split in the wooden fence seperating backstage from the general area. We sat beneath a tree, near one of the band’s trailers, hoping we could stay there in the shade until we figured everything out. Long story short, Mr. X came up to Lindsay and I, all-access pass blazing. He brought us some cold beer and cigarettes and we started talking. He promised to bring us along and get us some passes so we wouldn’t have to worry about finding the band.
We caught up with the band, watched the show, and then afterwards they had to fly back to California or something for the next show on their tour. Mr. X offered his hotel room. I didn’t have to deal with any of his bullshit because I was horribly missing my boyfriend and kept talking about him – Mr. X got the idea thankfully, although he insisted that my boyfriend was definitely cheating on me. It turns out he was.
Mr. X texted Lindsay and I the whole way back home, telling us to just stop at the closest airport and he’d fly us back to hang out. We considered, but I wanted to get home to my cheating-liar-son of a bitch-boyfriend. He continued to text us for weeks after, until I got a call from his live-in girlfriend/fiancee/whatever. She said she pays their cell phone bills, and read all the texts. Then she tricked me with some dumb question, which obviously showed that he was lying because he told her I was someone’s cousin. Someone named Dennis’s cousin – hello, I’m Italian, I have no cousins named DENNIS. Thanks for the heads up Mr. X!
I told the girlfriend that nothing happened, we met, and that was it, and I was sorry about what she was going through but had nothing to worry about. Mr. X quit talking to us after that. I texted him when I found out I was moving to New York, because I knew he lived there. I had 2 weeks to find an apartment and wanted any help I could find. He never responded.
I went for a year without talking to Mr. X in New York. Until a band I wanted to meet was coming to town…. I knew Mr. X was hooked up, and after a quick consultation with Lindsay I decided to reach out. Mr. X and I had the quick catch up, that is until he asked me to send “some pics.” Let’s just get this straight – nothing, and I mean nothing, is creepier when a guy asks for a girl to send him “pics.” Sick. I cut the conversation off and that was that. Sure enough, next night I get a text saying he has courtside seats for the Knicks, am I up for it? I called his bluff and said sure, I’d meet him there. Sure enough, I showed up and the seats were phenomenal… I met him and his business partner, along with a new act they were trying to sign. After the game we went to the Palace Hotel, had about 6 martinis, some truffle fries (yum) and then some other random bar to check out a band. His business partner took me home and it was a great night. Of course I payed for nothing… maybe Mr. X was a good sugar daddy option after all!
A couple weeks later, I was moving into a new apartment. Mr. X offered to pay for my movers, but the guy he had used in the past was no longer in business. I insisted I was going to do it myself. The day after move in, I had to go to IKEA to get some furniture and apartment stuff… Mr. X showed up bright and early, and took Kristen and I to IKEA. He payed for everything ($1000 +), and put it all together. I couldn’t believe how sweet it was. He admitted later that he did it out of guilt, because he got my text message over a year ago asking for help finding an apartment and he deleted it, pissed off because of the girlfriend drama. I accepted his $$ - i mean his apology!
That night he tried to hook up with both me and my roommate. Now after his admission of ignoring my text, and helping me with all my furniture, I assumed we were even. Not so according to him – but when he pulled out his penis and tried to jump on top of me in my bed I wanted to close my eyes and have it go away. He eventually left, thank God.
To this day, Mr. X texts and IMs me with promises of new Christian Louboutin shoes. It’s tempting, but not worth it. There’s gifts, and then there’s being a whore. And then there’s being a whore with a dirty old man.
Moral of the story, to take a line from one of my favorites (8 Mile): “Jimmy – free comes with a dick up your ass.”
