Before continuing, take a read of the previous post, Meeting Mr Happn, to get the full back story…
Wooed in the West Village
Mr Happn and I were both back from Florida, and arranged to go out asap, on a Friday night. Knowing he liked fish as much as me, I suggested the highly recommended Mary’s Fish Camp in the West Village.
My outfit of choice was a blue and white striped dress, black tights, black low-heeled booties, and red lipstick (in hindsight, unintentionally nautical). I was feeling pretty hot. Running late as usual, I found him waiting on a bench inside the quaint, corner restaurant. I fancied him immediately.
There was a wait for tables, so we sat at the bar. We drank white wine out of cups, and devoured spectacularly smoked trout dip with toast and pickles. I ordered fish of the day, but his giant cod sandwich with thin, crisp french fries was the real winner.
It was strangely mild for winter, so after dinner we strolled around the village. I adored being with someone who knew the city so well. He took me to a basement speakeasy bar, Little Branch, which you wouldn’t know was there if not for the line outside.
We waited 10 minutes to get in, which Mr Happn was not impressed with, but it was worth the wait. The venue screamed New York: low ceilinged, candlelit, and lined with brown leather booths. The music was old school, and the cocktails were strong and perfect.
Our conversation turned to Judaism, and I discovered his views and experiences were similar to mine in terms of how he was brought up, what he believed, and what he wanted to pass on to his family. I found this unexpectedly deep conversation exhilarating, and had to momentarily compose myself in the bathroom.
After far too many gin martinis, we were all over each other like randy school kids. When we left, it felt like the obvious thing to invite him back, despite having left my place an absolute tip. I think I used the line, “Wanna come over and see my studio?”
I remember it being fun, but I’d be lying if I said I remembered much else. We definitely had sex, and definitely used a condom, but details are a blur. I’m basically numb in the bedroom at that stage of intoxication. Fortunately, we were both as trashed as each other, which in my mind cancels it out.
He left in a hungover hurry in the morning as he had somewhere to be (a boat I think!). As I nursed a headache in bed, I couldn’t help wondering if we’d rushed things. But, I reminded myself, it was all that I’d wanted at the time.
We texted a little, but by Sunday night he hadn’t asked me out again. I was horrified at the prospect of him losing interest after sex. If that was so, I had drastically misjudged the situation.
In an instant I became a teenager. I spent Monday pining, and staring at my phone. I was waiting all day for him to reply to my 10:38pm ‘What are you up to?’ text from the previous night.
That evening he finally texted. What he’d been ‘up to’ the night before was sleeping (makes sense). I decided to make the move, and told him that I wanted to see him again, soon. He suggested coffee on Wednesday, as our offices were close. I was expecting another dinner date, so was slightly taken aback. I couldn’t tell whether he was fobbing me off, or finding a way to see me sooner.
Coffee day was freezing and windy. Everywhere was busy, and we were both having shitty work days. I made a babbling comment about the obscene amount of coffee he drank. When he looked puzzled, it hit me that I was thinking of a different guy I’d dated recently, who was hooked on caffeine. I berated myself silently and rapidly changed the conversation.
By Thursday night I’d practically given up hope of another date, until he texted to ask if I’d found a venue for my birthday party that weekend. Suddenly the fact that he hadn’t asked me out made sense; he’d wrongly assumed it was my action packed bday celebration that weekend, when it was actually the following. I corrected him, and he asked if I wanted to hang Saturday night. Joy.
Our bad-weather-luck continued when Saturday turned out to be the biggest snow storm of the year, resulting in a subway shut down and travel ban. The wind howled and the snow blustered relentlessly in every direction; going anywhere was not an option. For the full scoop on the snow storm, check out my blog post New York Snows Hard.
Snow Job Sundays
What I omitted from my snow storm blog post date description was that I visited Mr Happn’s apartment for the first time that Sunday. It was a one bed, split level, new-build conversion in a Greenpoint townhouse, on a colorful street with a neighborhood feel.
It was under construction, with limited furniture, but was clearly going to be knock out. Three of his lounge walls boasted large, square, centered windows with insane views of the Manhattan skyline. It was like being in a glass box.
We hung out in his upstairs, loft-style bedroom, where it was warmer. We sat on his bed and drank Japanese whisky, before one thing led to another.
He was quite serious between the sheets, and didn’t say a lot, which I found sexy. He sensed exactly how I liked to be touched, and made me come with his hand.
I pulled him off the bed, knelt on the light wood floor in front of him, and started teasing him with my mouth. I was sure to angle myself so I could see the empire state building in the background, lit up in all its glory. My NY dreams were being realized by the second. If I could have high-fived myself, I would have.
Despite the ups and downs (which occurred mostly in my head), by New York’s standards, things with Mr Happn were getting pretty serious. From the reaction I was getting in the office, four dates was considered an achievement in the big apple. We may as well be walking down the aisle.
But in my British books, it was early days. Did we know a lot about each other? Not really. Was he a good match for me? No idea. Was I ready for something more? Inconclusive. What I did know was that he was a cool, sexy, different guy, and I was enjoying our time together.
I vowed 3 things to myself:
- To not get carried away, and to take things slow
- To not obsess about, or over-analyze, every text exchange
- To definitely give more blow jobs against the NY skyline backdrop
What turn did the romance rollercoaster take next? Keep reading to find out what happn’d…