Did I want to see his house? Chaz lived in the East Village down the street from Crif Dogs. He wanted to show me something, something we’d been discussing the other night. Wearily, fully aware of the well greased trap I was walking into, I agreed. He showed me the very well cared for porch and little garden his housemate maintained, cleverly incorporating this trip into something I’d mentioned on our previous meeting about wanting to plant flowers. It was actually not uncool.
I was enchanted with the porch garden, clearly more so than Chaz had patience for because he kept trying to hurry me into the house, while I exclaimed over the nice little potted plants, the sunflowers and the plum tomatoes. He kissed me and it was kind of rock star and I thought to myself, well every girl should sleep with someone this scuzzy at least once, right?

“Chaz! It’s me! We’ve had sex, for Christ’s sake.”

And so I did. It was…unremarkable. He had a strange long penis, without much width or depth or integrity somehow. It reminded me of his personality. He was also a very persistent dirty talker, which I tend to find a little presumptuous. I am of the opinion that dirty talk, done well, requires a level of knowledge or understanding of the other person and I’d only just met this guy. It was distinctly unoriginal and laden with bad language and not at all a turn on. I had to bite hard into his pillow at one point, which I presume he took as me in the throes of passion but the reality is he was starting to sound like a cheesy pornographic film, which is probably where he’d stolen most of his really good lines, his insistent, rhetorical inquiries into how the sex was going. I pictured him watching a film of this nature and taking careful notes, scratching his head, confused over some of the puns.

My favorite part about this evening was that he very nearly didn’t put a condom on and in fact argued slightly with me when I insisted on it. Again, lesson learned from Josh. Regardless of how drunk one is, it is a mistake to have unprotected sex with strangers. I basically told him to locate a condom or to locate another girl. He positively pouted at this point but got motivated enough to locate and apply a condom to himself and then to return his attentions to me, calling me a dirty girl. I felt this didn’t follow, given that I was the one insisting on protection but he wasn’t being all too logical at that moment.

I woke up before he did, took stock of the person I’d slept with, a no account would be rock star who argued with people he’d just met about wearing rubbers and who dirty talked like the eighties. I snuck out, feeling devilish and sort of cool. Maybe like cat woman, but slutty. I was never going to see Brooks again and that was very gratifying.

After a couple of days though, I realized something insulting. He hadn’t attempted to get in touch with me. It was one thing if I was blowing him off, as I was. He was an apish, gross man whore. But, could he seriously be blowing me off as well? That was just insulting. I had been so pleased with myself for my first ever straight up using a person for sex, loving and leaving them. Realizing that the shoe was on the other foot ruined this for me though. And I sulked for a couple of days.

Months and months have gone by. I was Jessica Rabbit for Halloween, which necessitating me growing my hair out slightly and dying it red. I like it and keep it like this after Halloween. One day at work, Chaz walks into my restaurant (I waitress in a Tribeca wine bar) like it’s something he does all the time. I’m sure it’s him and I want to throw him out. This is not the kind of place I would expect to find him and I’m wondering (not yet flattered, but wondering) if I mentioned this to him and if this is why he’s here. I approach him. “Hi,” I say and I say it kind of loaded, expectant.

“Hi,” he says too, familiar, easy, annoying me.

“So how are you?” I say, playing along a little but also getting pissed.

“I’m doing very well, beautiful,” he quips easily, “how ’bout yourself?”

He’s hitting on me, I realize. The dirty rat bastard doesn’t recognize me and he’s hitting on me.

“Chaz!” I say, peeved and finally he has the sense to look at little less comfortable with everything. “It’s me! We’ve had sex, for Christ’s sake.”

He double takes. I want to die. This is embarrassing. This is really really goddamn embarrassing. How will I look myself in the mirror? How will I look anyone in the mirror? Who is this guy? How many tons of women have he slept with that he doesn’t recognize them anymore after two months?

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” he says and then has the nerve to look comfortable again, “You changed your hair, right?”

“Yeah but not my face, voice, body, or where I goddamn work,” I hiss.

“It looks good,” he says, smiling lazy and confident, still somehow, impossibly thinking it’s appropriate to hit on someone after you’ve failed to recognize that you’ve already slept with them.

Lessons learned here: avoid men who work in bars and avoid men in bands. If you are unfortunate enough to meet a man who does both these things, do other women a favor and maim him somehow. These men are getting laid so much it is making them unforgivably lazy.