I haven’t written in over a week. I feel like my ability to write is fading and it’s fucking scary. It’s every writer’s nightmare. Timing is also fucking perfect, my first published novel is due for national release this coming July and my creative juices are drier than the Sahara desert. I decided that it maybe a good idea to see my psychologist, Suzanne.  But then I thought to myself that I should engage myself first in my regular Saturday night debauchery. Sounds like a better idea. Promiscuity first and then psychotherapy. 

It was Saturday night and lower Manhattan is filled with bridge and tunnel people from Long Island and New Jersey. I went to the Beauty Bar in East Village. Lots of vibrant memories there so to speak. One time, I ran into someone famous. I was on the crowded hallway of the dance floor and someone tugged my arm. I looked back and it was Harry fucking Potter! Yes, it was actor Daniel Radcliffe. He said, “Sorry” in a genuine, English accent. I was already drunk when I got there and it took me about ten seconds to recognize who he was. He was almost unrecognizable. Probably because his face had a full beard and also the face that he’s more hammered than I was. He went straight to the bar area and did shots of jaeger bombs. He got so drunk that the management of the club politely asked him to leave and called him a cab. The next day, it was on the NEW YORK POST. But my recent experience with that club isn’t about Harry Potter. It’s about a recent rendezvous with a Russian beauty. The reason that I could that she was Russian is because one of my roommates back at the hostel where I used to live was Russian whom also I had a brief fling. It’s not the physical features that I recognize, it’s the vibe. Just to make this clear, I didn’t plan for any of this to happen. But for some weird reason, I always end up in dramatic and theatrical situations. And I like it. I ordered myself a glass of PBR and sat down on the seating area across from the bar section. While I sipped on a glass of drink, I noticed this girl staring at me. She’s petite, blonde hair, blue eyes. Her hair is styled like Yulia Tymoshenko, Ukraine’s ousted prime minister. I played it cool and continued to sip my drink. All of a sudden, a girl with an 80’s hairstyle sat in front of me. She was avoiding eye contact and paid more attention to her iphone. Whatever to hello? Nobody says hello anymore. It’s depressing to know that a common greeting no longer exists or maybe becoming extinct. As I finish up my drink, the Russian beauty kept staring at me like I did something to her. An eye contact never lies. It’s true, you can tell someone’s real intention by looking deep into their eyes. I think she was just lonely. Loneliness is worst human experience anyone could have. And I hate to think that I have the ability to make someone feel that way. I really hope that kind of ability does not exist within me. Pop music from the 80’s started to blast from the DJ’s booth. Songs by The Ramones, Blondie, OMD, Madonna, and A Flock of Seagulls. I realized that my glass was empty and asked the girl in front of me if she wanted something to drink. She finally made eye contact with me and demanded a glass of screwdriver.

“Now we’re talkin.. Where are your friends?” I said. 

“Oh they love to make me wait” She replied with a smile.  

“I promise not to make you wait on a glass of screwdriver” I responded. 

She then gave me a “go-ahead-and-fuck-me” smile.  

I went to the bar and passed by the Russian beauty. After I picked up the drinks, an instinct took over me. I asked the bartender if I could leave the drink by her just for a minute. From a distance, I can feel the Russian beauty looking at me. I looked back at her and we finally managed to stare at each other without feeling uncomfortable. I started to walk slowly towards her. She stood there without blinking an eye. As I came closer to her, I felt a sense of sexual familiarity. My hands reached out and grabbed her hips, she moved pulled forward towards me and then kissed her full on the lips. She placed her arms around me as I continued to kiss her. As we decided to pull away from each other, her friends are looking at us in shock. I looked at the seating area and the 80’s styled girl was looking at me with disgust in her face. She probably thought that I was such a prick for offering her a drink and then making out with someone else. She angrily stood up from her chair and stormed out. 

“Who was that?” Russian beauty asked with an erotic accent.

“Oh no one, just a weird girl” I replied with a guilty conscience. 

“Would you like to have cigarette with me outside?” 

“Yes, sure. I have some” 

“What kind of cigarette is it?”

“It’s Gauloises (pronounced “go.lwaz”, a French trademark cigarette that Picasso and John Lennon smoked.) 

“It’s French?” 

“Yes, Picasso and John Lennon used to smoke it.” 

“I’d like to smoke that too, but I want to be alive for a long time” 

“My intentions are the same”

We stepped outside and I took out a pack of Gauloises Blondes, in a blue pack. I placed two cigarettes in my mouth and lit it up  just like that famous 1940’s film scene with Humphrey Bogart and Bette Davis. I gave the other cigarette to my Russian beauty. 

“Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome!”

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Franco, what’s yours?”

“It’s not important, you’ll forget about me by tomorrow”

Just like that, I immediately knew that she behaved like a man in order to avoid getting hurt. I then laughed after I heard of what she said.

“What’s so funny?”

“I think we’re even”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah! Definitely.”

“How so?”

“Because Franco isn’t my real name.”

The Russian beauty also laughed her ass off. 

“I think you fear the possibility of a serious human relationship.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re afraid. You’ve been afraid of getting hurt for quite some time. And now, all that you could do is to pretend in order to shield yourself.”

“Fuck you!” 

I then threw my cigarette on the ground and walked away from. Never in my life have been made uncomfortable by a stranger. Not to mention someone that I made out with. As I tried to look back at her, she was still staring at me with a serious face. I thought to myself that maybe she’s one of those psychology students who takes pleasure in psychoanalyzing random strangers to apply what they learn in their fucking classrooms. If so, I really hated her psychoanalysis. Maybe there’s a grain of accuracy in it. Maybe that was the reason that it pissed me off so much. I do have a fear. Who doesn’t?! But what I fear the most, is something that I’m not sure of. Oh fuck it! She’s right, I do have the fear of a possible serious human contact. But perhaps everyone doesn’t realize is that I’m still rebuilding my fortress of protection that was destroyed beyond recognition.