This is the second part of a series about an epic mess that I got myself into when I first moved to Manhattan, a mess that involves a Craigslist ad, the Four Seasons Hotel, a bunch of strangers–myself included– shamelessly hyping themselves up to each other, and, as with any good New York story, blood-soaked fine linens.

So when we last left off, I had received an impressive email from “The Table-Turner” who said that he was a fashion photographer who, with his “eeclectic [sic] group of A list cohorts,” hangs out with models and actresses “mostly all of the time.” He described himself and his “cohorts” as “extreeemly [sic] creative and artistic, very intelligent” and knowledgeable of the “best places to see and be seen.”

Basically, he managed to use as many cliched phrases from “Sex and the City” as possible, and I, having never watched a single episode (in fact, for the longest time I thought the name of the show was “Sex in the City”), tender, young, innocent, simple, and stupid –I absorbed all of this posturing with the fresh excitement, ardor, and marvel of a child brought to her first Easter Egg Hunt. Ladies and gentlemen, I believed every stinkin’, misspelled word.

Being naturally inclusive, I emailed everybody who wrote back to my Craigslist ad –yes, everybody– and suggested that we go out that very Friday night. For one shining moment, it really looked like I was about to successfully assemble a rag-tag team of loners to set out into the tumultuous high seas of New York night life, all orchestrated from the confines of my drab midtown office. What I did not know yet was that the attrition rate for group hang-outs in New York City is approximately 99%.

By Thursday afternoon, the group had dwindled down to consist of a self described “cute gay boy,” the Table Turner, and two women with AOL email addresses that described themselves as imprisoned but nonetheless ephemeral, delicate creatures. (Yet, aren’t we all, deep down, ButterfliesInACage6969!)

The Table Turner was the most chatty. He sent me a continuous volley of musings about his fabulous life, such as:

myself and my friends are early 40’s, late 30s. professionals, CEO’s, doctors, retired pro athletes, news anchorpersons, models and actresses and the like. but when we hang out with younger women, we never get any complaints.

Less predictably, perhaps, he also told me that:

im no rocket scientist but i am a nuclear engineer (how else do you think i could afford to hang out at the four seasons, and be a fashion photographer slash amatuer writer?)

and i can discuss anything from einsteins unfinished unified field theory to agent provacatuer.

now most of my friends are equally well versed, though i must admit, there experiences with women’s very fine lingerie (agent provacatuer) is more of a hands on nature LOL

Hold up, what? A nuclear engineer? The Table Turner might not know how to spell one of his three vocations, but he certainly knew how to solicit the, if we are to be honest, easy respect that a shiny-eyed young person who has just entered “the real world,” is ready to heap upon any authority figure with age spots. I was intrigued and delighted that a multi-talented genius was interested in hanging out with little old, trim my own bangs, can’t uncork a wine bottle without pushing numerous and sizable pieces of the eroding cork into the bottle, me.

So when the Table Turner asked me to tell him a little bit about myself, I jumped at the opportunity. And when he pretty much ignored the little bio that I had tried so hard to make sound wry, clever, endearingly cocksure, with just a hint of a geeky high school past undercurrent (basically, I tried to sound like Neil Patrick Harris), and asked if I could send a “pix” or two of myself to him, I didn’t see anything remotely suspicious about that request, and quickly sent along the most “grown-up” photograph of me that I had in my new camera phone. It pains me to share it with anyone but, here it is:

Ouch. Anyway, by Friday night, when it looked like my electronic entourage was dwindling down into a leftover medley of people who didn’t know what they wanted to do, the Table Turner showed off his plans for the night:

im “allegedly” having dinner with 3 models from NJ, probably in Soho, then we’re off to the four seasons for after dinner drinks and polite conversation. some where along the way either a doctor friend of mine (head of surgery) or a very attractive straight japanese actor, or possibly even a retired professional athlete (if he flies in from LA) will meet up with us. (now if im lucky non of them will show up, and i will have to entertain all of them by myself, i say “let them compete” for my attention)

Holy! Color me impressed! I wanted to be friends with heads of surgery and attractive straight Japanese actors! And retired professional athletes freshly flown in from LA like some kind of delicious mango! I wanted to –and you can tell I was really clueless at this time– hang out with models from New Jersey! I took that paragraph in one breathless gulp, and excitedly scrolled down for more:

ok, let me make you an offer (that you cant refuse)

postpone your soiree my dear… (cuz no one knows exactly what they want to do anyway, and a man that doesnt have a plan for an attractive woman such as yourself is no man in my eyes) and you and i (sans the attractive models from NJ) will go to dinner in Soho…. then… the 2 of us…, head up to the Four Seasons Hotel 57-57 bar, or (and im dying to go to either) the manderin oriental hotel MoBar, or the World bar at the Trump world tower..lady’s choice of course… for polite conversation and cocktails (martini?) and my dear…if im too boring i’ll send for reinforcements, (i.e the aforementioned)

Do you see that slight of hand there, do you??! Because I didn’t. Like an idiot, I was completely fascinated by the world that the Table Turner allegedly inhabited, and I wanted to admire it from the inside, while its glittering stars spun around me like a disco ball, a world to which I, the gaping tourist, had somehow, through a recklessly-worded Craigslist ad, gained access.

Plans are made to meet at the Four Season’s bar, which is on the top floor of the hotel, on ritzy Fifth Avenue. 8 PM. In case you were wondering, by this time, I had completely abandoned any pretenses as being a queen bee / bitch / alpha female. I let my true, accommodating, self shine through, as if it was some sort of benevolent act, peppering my emails with “I’m completely flexible,” and other cringe-worthy, gaggingly agreeable, quips. Little did I know, at that early, early, hour of the long day’s journey into womanhood, that you’re not really suppose to do that; it’s boring.

Friday night, 7PM. I rush home to my brand new studio apartment, in whose fridge I keep documents, and in whose cupboards, t-shirts and sweaters. (The ice-skates go in the freezer, obviously.) I put on 4-inch knee high heels that a street photographer had once called “fuck me boots,” a black mini-skirt slightly longer than my heels, and some sort of fragment of black silk that bared one’s back and shoulders. And while it is very understandable to look at this wardrobe choice and think that my aim was to have romantic relations with the Table Turner, that wasn’t my intention at all.

Here’s what I hoped to happen: that I would sit down for a friendly chat with the Table Turner, who would realize that I was intelligent, wry, etc. (the Neil Patrick Personality Matrix), and then would invite his colorful assembly of beautiful genius friends and older, more experienced, women to join us, and at 2 AM, we would all glance at each other with sparkling eyes over the rim of our champagne flutes (we’re on a rooftop), and I would turn to the camera with one raised eyebrow and say, “Welcome to New York, cheers!” Bittersweet Symphony crescendos in the background, and the world fades to a rich, velvety, black.

Things didn’t exactly turn out as I had hoped.