Arnold Bistro

7 Dec

I was about to leave the Corner Bistro when I was approached by Arnold.  He was a muscular, tan, fifty-something year old man in a disconcerting retro shirt and of course, white pants.  He wasted no time in letting me in on the fact that he was gracing me with his presence because he was “sexually attracted” to me.  After bestowing upon me the gift of several glasses of cheap wine, he offered to drive me home in his Pontiac Firebird convertible.  I agreed, which I soon regretted after standing on the corner for twenty minutes, watching him wrestle with the hood of his car in tight, white linen slacks.  I didn’t want to make him to drive all the way to Brooklyn, so he dropped me off in the East Village instead.  After he pulled me in for an aggressive kiss, I got out and took the train the rest of the way.  By the time I reached my apartment, I had received two drunken voicemails from Arnold telling me how confusing I am for leaving him to probably go meet up with another guy, and how he wanted me to be his date to all of his “exclusive events.”

Despite the discernible red flags, I was intrigued by the attention from an older man and ended up agreeing to a date with him the following week.  He met me at a random sports bar in Chelsea donning yet another pair of white pants, this time combined with a white shirt that accented what I venture to guess was not his natural skin tone.  He complained more than once about the fact that my wine was not included in the happy hour special after he offered to buy me drinks.  The original plan was to go out for sushi afterwards, but he decided half-way through happy hour that it would be a better idea to make a salad together at his apartment.  At this point it was difficult for me to ignore the sinking suspicion that a sensual salad tong reach-around was imminent, yet still I forged ahead.

After an awkward and lengthy grocery store trip, we walked at least fifteen blocks to his apartment.  It was in a really nice part of the East Village but his furnishings were that of a late-twenties thrift store junkie.  It also had no air conditioning and an allegedly noise-sensitive transvestite neighbor.  Arnold got out several albums from his massive record collection to impress me after he learned of my love and knowledge of classic rock.  In between sweating profusely, shushing me and periodically turning down the music (due to an alleged irritable transvestite neighbor), he scolded me for setting an album cover on the table in case there was salad dressing on it.  He then regaled me with tales of various other women he was seeing, his close threesome encounter with a cast member of “The Good Wife,”  and his own ex-wife.  Apparently he ran a modeling agency when he was younger and had married one of his models.  All of a sudden, sweaty and misty-eyed, he reclined on me…and wasn’t the Emerson, Lake, and Palmer song that was playing romantic?  Eventually, he gathered that I was not going to sleep with him, so he walked me to the train.

A week or so later, I went to the Bistro with a coworker.  Arnold happened to be there, wasted and obnoxious.  He was pissing off the bartender, harassing several bar patrons, and insulting my coworker.  Finally, after I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with him, he announced he was leaving– but not before grabbing my face to try and kiss me.  On his way out, he invited me to be his date for an event at the Museum of Sex the following week and told me to text him the next day if I was interested.  Obviously, I was not.  The day before the event, I received this text: “Haven’t heard from you so we will get together another time.  :-) Arnold.  P.S. SEX MUSEUM.”

2011: The summer of love.

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