Who knew the hot new gay club was the Villa Chauvin hair studio opening on 23rd street? I did. So my single girlfriends came in tow, ready to flirt for free hair glossing and highlights. Flirting with a gay man consists of complimenting his ass, and throwing in a “he was so checking you out” for good measure. My friends mingled with a straight (and very much in gay demand) Patrick McMullen photog. It was all friendly drunken flirting with men in leather pants who coif the New York select. Hair stylists, dear reader, are the secret keepers of New York. I was determined to find someone sloppy. Sadly, the closest I got was, “Monica is very open. She spilled it all in this very chair.” Okay, so it wasn’t that chair. Still, women are apt to share their most intimate secrets with their hairdressers. “If you trust him with your hair, you trust him with your life.”
Toasts have been made with plastic-filled very strong drinks, involving, “We will each French kiss a boy tonight. And if the clock strikes three, and no tongues have mingled, I don’t care if you grab a stranger and lip lock him into a corner. This shite is on ladies, and very real.” Who the fcuk says “French Kiss” anymore? It’s right up there with Max Headroom and the hand job. Still, the bet is on, and the retro French Kiss is due for a vintage moment in our very fashionable near future. Well, that is, once we leave the salon.
At another bar, full of jappy girls and preppy boys, while I’m checking my coat, my friends encounter a Harvard idiot. “You ladies picked a good night. There’s lots of earning potential here.” Ew. Who the fcuk are you? I get word that Kent with a “t” has splashed his nonsense along with his gin and tonic. Now it’s my turn.
“Are you the infamous Kent with a ‘t’?” He’s preppy and blonde, standing erect, as he smiles. He thinks this is flirting.
“Why yes, I am. And who, may I ask, are you?”
“Not an idiot. Nice to meet you.” I’m drunk and feisty. It happens from time to time. “So, Kent with a ‘t,’ word has it there’s good earning potential here tonight, huh?”
“Oh yeah.” He then nods to his two buddies, raising a glass. The boys club has come to order, and the clinking of their clear drinks is the gavel. “You ladies have lots of Harvard-educated Goldman Saches boys to choose from tonight. Lot’s of earning potential.Oh yeah.” What the fcuk?
“Well Kent, lemme ask you a question.” I grab his dick with my free hand. “How much earning potential is a half roll of quarters these days? I haven’t been up on the markets lately.” Oh yes, I did.
“Oh, I like her.” His buddy interjects. Kent with a ‘t’ turns red and scampers away.
“Your friend is a dick boys.” They laugh and stare at my tits.
Then, Kent returns, with, “Okay, let me ask you a question.”
“Go for it.” I stare.
“Did you get here tonight over the bridge or through a tunnel?” Kent laughs at his joke, eyeing his friends for approval in laughs. He’s clearly the type of guy who comes up with his own nickname and tells people to call him by it. Ken-dog.
Then I interject my retard laugh, very loudly. “Wow, man, you’re so clever. You took all this time to think that one up? I orgasm faster than that. Damn, Kent, you made a fool of me; I didn’t know you could get honors in retarded at Harvard. Your parents must be so proud.”
Then, we ladies all made good on our bet. Kent didn’t get any action; you know, if you don’t count the cheap quarter thrill in the last inning. I went home alone, smiling, despite the Kent’s of the world.