Friday, December 29, 2006

Home Stretch

I'm what the over-hyped, over-quaffed, over-confident traders and I-bankers call a "back office bitch." This statement is supposed to make me feel like less of a human being, and pity my poor standing in life. If I wanted that life I would be living it, but for me a nice bottle of wine and a good movie from netflix does more for me then any night on the town. Not that I look down on those that need to be validated by hulking doormen and coke addicted list girls that stand watch at the door of the fine establishments that foul this fine city. Sometimes I think that I missed the boat being born in the early eighties, I read stories about Danceteria and Pyramid and think it would be nice to find an unpretentious place to dance and drink without worry that my shoes are "so last season."

I deal with the banking "big shots" on a daily basis, I never cow-tow and never, ever flirt. So many of my type (ie back office girls) do, hoping perhaps that they too can join in the luxury and excess. Doing coke in the bathroom of some trendy nightspot, while the bathroom attendant knocks on the door threatening to call security, is not my idea of a good time. I do not squeeze myself into form fitting clothing, painful shoes and hand-bags so tiny that I have to leave my mace at home. I hear these captains of finance discussing their weekend plans at sorted nightspots with "easy bitches" and bottle service, and it validates my reason to stay far away from these people and those places.

Before I became corporate I bartended to pay my way through school. I had no choice but to wear the tight clothes and smile at the various assholes begging me for vodkaredbull (it must be said in one word to sound authentic) and my phone number. As soon as the lights came on and the bouncers cleared house, I would stare and the gummy, sticky, grimy filth that covered the surfaces and shudder at all the girls who could no longer stand in their stillettos, opting to dance barefoot in the club sewage. There were the girls who danced on the bar, shaking their asses in my face and bending over to show the world their panties (or sometimes lack there of.) There were the ones who engaged in mock lesbianism crying out for all those in attendance to look at them, attention can be a dangerously addictive habit, and others who gave blow jobs in the bathroom in exchange for a pass to VIP. I would wait for the night to end, and use a biore towlette to wipe the layers of makeup off my face, tie my hair up and put my glasses on to count my tips. I would walk out, escorted by a bouncer to a cab, inconspicuous to anyone who may have seen me inside. I would go home and wash the night off me, I refused to sleep smelling like an apple martini.

This glorified lifestyle that NYC has become so centered on holds no allure for me. Once you have seen how the magician performs his trick, the magic is gone and you truly understand what an illusion it is.

3 Comments:

Blogger Miss Devylish said...

Alright sugar.. I'm doing my best to catch up w/ you here.. I hope you had a lovely holiday and new year w/ your man and puppy! xoxo

7:58 PM  
Blogger Investment Banking Monkey said...

Absolutely fantastic stuff! This is the the first post I have reah and am already sneaking a peek at the ones below as I write this comment. Keep it up!!!

7:47 AM  
Blogger Daneris said...

Hi hope your doing well since this latest entry is so old. I like your writing and your insights, I found you by skimming through nyc blogs by subway.

3:07 PM  

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