nice guy. Just to get her aunt and everyone else off her back, she took Spiros’s number and promised to call him. Jeez, a Greek got on your case, you were going to agree to anything.
A few months later, when she was back in New York and had just broken up with the latest dick she’d met out clubbing, she found the piece of paper with the phone number in the bottom of her suitcase and figured, What the hell?
Spiros was weird on the phone. He asked all kinds ofquestions — who was she, why was she calling, why did she wait so long to call. Angela was about to hang up when he suggested that they go to dinner Friday night. It wasn’t like her social diary was overflowing so Angela went to meet him after work, figuring she’d go for the free meal.
Spiros was short with bad skin, a crooked nose, and a bushy black mustache. He looked sort of like Saddam Hussein. Angela wanted to ditch him right then, but they were at a very expensive Greek restaurant in midtown so she figured he must be loaded. During dinner, he was very polite and kept telling her how pretty her smile was and how her eyes were the color of the Aegean Sea, but Angela was more interested when he started talking about his money. He said he was in “the restaurant business,” but he wouldn’t tell her the name of the restaurant or where it was located.
He tipped big and, like all New Yorkers, Angela watched for that — it was a good sign.
They went out a few more times and he kept spending a lot of money on her and buying her presents. Whenever she brought up his restaurant he’d say, “Don’t worry, I’ll take you there some time,” but he never did. Then, one afternoon, walking along Sixth Avenue, she spotted Spiros working at a souvlaki cart on the corner of Fifty-third Street. When she confronted him, he confessed that his plan was to marry her and put her to work selling souvlaki while he moved back to Xios. Angela’s Irish temper came out in full force as she roared at him, “You fooking bollix!” He’d muttered that was a nice way for a lady to speak and she’d exploded, “I’m not a lady, I’m Irish yah cunt!”
Angela decided that she’d had it with Greek men. A couple of weeks later, she and her friend Laura went to Hogs & Heifers, a biker bar in the meatpacking district. They were having a blast, getting ripped on beer andshots of Schnapps, playing old Aerosmith on the jukebox. She’d had a thing for Steven Tyler years ago and still would’ve humped him in a heartbeat. Hell, the mood she was in, she would’ve humped any guy with money and decent breath. A few college girls, egged on by the surly bikers, stood on the bar during “Walk This Way” and started dancing topless. It was an informal ritual at the bar for girls to dance topless and the bikers started chanting for Laura and Angela to get up and join them. So Laura and Angela stood on the bar and did slow stripteases as the guys cheered them on. Laura stopped at her stockings, but Angela went all the way, pulling off her stockings and tossing them into the crowd of cheering men.
After dancing for about a half an hour, Angela got down from bar, suddenly exhausted and dizzy. A sweaty Puerto Rican guy came over, holding Angela’s stockings, and said, “Yo, I’m Tony. I think you dropped somethin’.”
Angela was drunk and everything else that happened that night was a blur. As she put on her stockings and bra and the rest of her clothes, Tony bought her a shot of tequila. Then he said, “I like the way you was dancin’ up there — you got all the moves. I like that accent too. You sound like that bitch from Braveheart .”
They started making out, touching each other all over, then Tony brought her back to his place in Spanish Harlem. She wound up spending the weekend.
It turned out Tony made good money, as a union plumber, and Angela thought, Sex, money, a big apartment — she had it made. Then, one night, they were hanging out, watching a DVD of 24 when Tony
A few months later, when she was back in New York and had just broken up with the latest dick she’d met out clubbing, she found the piece of paper with the phone number in the bottom of her suitcase and figured, What the hell?
Spiros was weird on the phone. He asked all kinds ofquestions — who was she, why was she calling, why did she wait so long to call. Angela was about to hang up when he suggested that they go to dinner Friday night. It wasn’t like her social diary was overflowing so Angela went to meet him after work, figuring she’d go for the free meal.
Spiros was short with bad skin, a crooked nose, and a bushy black mustache. He looked sort of like Saddam Hussein. Angela wanted to ditch him right then, but they were at a very expensive Greek restaurant in midtown so she figured he must be loaded. During dinner, he was very polite and kept telling her how pretty her smile was and how her eyes were the color of the Aegean Sea, but Angela was more interested when he started talking about his money. He said he was in “the restaurant business,” but he wouldn’t tell her the name of the restaurant or where it was located.
He tipped big and, like all New Yorkers, Angela watched for that — it was a good sign.
They went out a few more times and he kept spending a lot of money on her and buying her presents. Whenever she brought up his restaurant he’d say, “Don’t worry, I’ll take you there some time,” but he never did. Then, one afternoon, walking along Sixth Avenue, she spotted Spiros working at a souvlaki cart on the corner of Fifty-third Street. When she confronted him, he confessed that his plan was to marry her and put her to work selling souvlaki while he moved back to Xios. Angela’s Irish temper came out in full force as she roared at him, “You fooking bollix!” He’d muttered that was a nice way for a lady to speak and she’d exploded, “I’m not a lady, I’m Irish yah cunt!”
Angela decided that she’d had it with Greek men. A couple of weeks later, she and her friend Laura went to Hogs & Heifers, a biker bar in the meatpacking district. They were having a blast, getting ripped on beer andshots of Schnapps, playing old Aerosmith on the jukebox. She’d had a thing for Steven Tyler years ago and still would’ve humped him in a heartbeat. Hell, the mood she was in, she would’ve humped any guy with money and decent breath. A few college girls, egged on by the surly bikers, stood on the bar during “Walk This Way” and started dancing topless. It was an informal ritual at the bar for girls to dance topless and the bikers started chanting for Laura and Angela to get up and join them. So Laura and Angela stood on the bar and did slow stripteases as the guys cheered them on. Laura stopped at her stockings, but Angela went all the way, pulling off her stockings and tossing them into the crowd of cheering men.
After dancing for about a half an hour, Angela got down from bar, suddenly exhausted and dizzy. A sweaty Puerto Rican guy came over, holding Angela’s stockings, and said, “Yo, I’m Tony. I think you dropped somethin’.”
Angela was drunk and everything else that happened that night was a blur. As she put on her stockings and bra and the rest of her clothes, Tony bought her a shot of tequila. Then he said, “I like the way you was dancin’ up there — you got all the moves. I like that accent too. You sound like that bitch from Braveheart .”
They started making out, touching each other all over, then Tony brought her back to his place in Spanish Harlem. She wound up spending the weekend.
It turned out Tony made good money, as a union plumber, and Angela thought, Sex, money, a big apartment — she had it made. Then, one night, they were hanging out, watching a DVD of 24 when Tony
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