After an agonizingly long day at the office I made my way to the A train and back to my apartment in West Harlem intending to catch up on Game of Thrones and pass out next to a carton of half-eaten Kung Pao chicken. A glamorous life I live, indeed.
I was fortunate enough to score a seat at the height of rush hour where I settled and got ready to relinquish all attention to my beloved kindle for the duration of the commute.
“Confessions of an Economic Hitman,” a stranger next to me said. “Great read.”
Being that I had just started the book on my way to work that very morning I had no viable opinion to offer, but I soon found myself discussing other pieces of literature with Liam, a devilishly handsome certified public accountant residing on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
Before he exited the train we had exchanged numbers, and planned to grab drinks that very week.
Like many boys in New York City, he was not one for forming a definitive plan, but rather texting sporadically at various hours of random evenings asking if I would like to
hook up grab a ‘last minute nightcap,’ which I always respectfully declined.
One Friday night subsequent to an evening out with my girlfriends that involved an over abundance of gin and tonics, Liam proposed we grab one more drink at a bar in close proximity to my apartment.
“A great idea!” I said.
This is was not a great idea.
I don’t quite recall the details of our spontaneous rendezvous, but long story short, we woke up in my apartment side by side, scantily clad with remnants of mozzarella sticks strewn throughout the sheets and a half-empty bottle of wine on my night stand.
I got up to go to the bathroom to quench the insatiable thirst and rid myself of the remaining gin, wine and marinara sauce that lingered inside my mouth.
When I crawled back into bed Liam was awake, and informed me that he was going to jump in the shower. I drifted back into my slumber fully expecting (and hoping) that there would be no trace of him when I awoke.
I was finally awaken by the sound of a frying pan screeching against a rusty burner and the sizzle of freshly cracked eggs accompanied by the delectable smell of sautéd butter.
I ascended the stairs of my duplex apartment to find Liam, stark naked, cooking up breakfast.
To my horror, his dangling testicles were quite literally pressed up against the knobs of my oven.
“Breakfast?” He asked, cheerfully, which I found even more obnoxious than his balls on my stove.
“No thanks,” I said, finding it hard to fashion any sort of appetite. “I am going to take a shower and get started with my errands and such.”
My ‘errands’ consisted of ordering the greasiest sandwich in existence and nursing my hangover on the couch, but I would have said anything necessary to expedite his departure.
When I finished my shower I was astonished to find Liam in my living room, his feet comfortably propped up on my coffee table, scrotum displayed for my viewing pleasure, and casually enjoying
his my eggs. For a minute, I thought he owned the place.
“Do you not have Netflix?” He asked.
Growing increasingly perturbed with his offensively entitled behavior…and his balls all over my stuff…I told Liam it was time to make his exit.
We ran into each other on the subway several times after our little ‘encounter,’ but Liam and I never spoke again.