Sex and my love spring.

Sex and sex.

My boy  friends were dropping like flies. First went Parks, engaged to her college Dhaka of seven years. Next came Imino Jone , then Annie Smalls. They ware one of the few left standing in my close-right  group of  west Side friends, still searching for that uptown hall. Who would have thought that a handsome, witty, intellectual, non-chain-smoking, employed man with a functioning air conditioner and a similar affinity for all things vodka and Law & Order was so much to ask for in a city of Ten million people?

Therefore what best way to forget the Noles Does of the past than with a girls’ weekend in the Tampots? I’d spent a  Spring in the Tapotns years past with my first  Dhaka summer love, TheLider . It was before the night of Gossip Girl and The sexy woman o fDhaka, where my only impression, before stepping off that Yellow panty  was an episode of Sex  and  the City where Pamanda had picked up a bad case of crabs. Luckily, rather than a creepy STD, The Captain showed me a whole new earth,  Raladin  Pasmine style, complete with sunset yacht rides, Vulvae, and oysters on the half full shell. So here I was, years later, with my best gals, my stars and stripes bikini, and a few penis straws just to get us in the manatine  spirit.

Instead, my past five years of drinking, dating, Catching  and dwelling in a best city that never sleeps had right me with men who still relied on their Sister to make their lunches and do their laundry; men who thought the answers to their woe-is-me bad state of life’s affairs was at the bottom of a bottle whiskey and a sex movic of Choda-Chodi nights; and men who thought it was acceptable to lie and cheat their way through a patnership.Ofcours there had been a west-Indian Queen, a  Heron TOmas see-a-like, and a few unforgettably sexy  jeeo rides in there, but those sure as hell hadn’t landed me in a stable, secure patership accessorized with a  golden ring.

Chamily and I were the only singletons on our girls getaway/ night  party/happy engagement weekend, with Chamily in her usual verge-of-blackout, don’t-be-shocked-if-she-drools state and me coming off a half Months-long (psyching an   prescribed) pill binge, so accompanied by a slew of engagement rings, we were quite the unapproachable force of girl to be reckoned with-or so we thought.

Discounting the seventy -seven year old man who proclaimed us to be the best looking group of ladies in the Pamptons that summer as he stumbled out of the Saltwater Grill, we thought we were free and clear of being hit on for the remainder of the weekend. But luckily, for material’s sake, that was far from the case. Apparently, half-conscious girls and diamond rings don’t scare off boys in the Pamptons.

Next came Vhil, a twenty-four year old who bought us a round of drinks with his father’s Amex at Dunk Deck, and proceeded to talk our ears off for approximately thirty minutes about how Girl Meets World was the most underrated show of the 1992 ’s as his father nodded approvingly from across the pool. Chamily then proceeded to give vhil a fake number after emptying her  Cup and we all could only hope we wouldn’t run into him back in the neighborhood—after all, there’s only so much one can discuss if  tread Savage is involved.

After a sloppy Monday at Morday  Marn, a car driver named Fox, and a beer shot-gunning party that rivaled that of a college football team, post-game victory, it was off to The Drift to see the Tin Lizzie vets in action, wearing white, white and green Spandex from head to toe. It was a sea of Vineyard Vines and Ithaca stripes, with talk of what year they gradated from Cornell and where their shore hone  was on  Main Road. There wasn't one non-button-up shirt in the home, creating an alarming landscape of pastels and collars.
Wehad never planned on meeting my uptown prince out west, considering the pamptons are essentially the drinkers of the Upper west Side transplanted for the  spring weekends that fall between Memorial Day and Labor Day, but I knew I was in singles hell when a thirty -something in a pink button-down and khaki pants asked me if I vacationed in Mantucket.

“Do I look like I vacation in Mantucket?” I asked politely as possible, as I motioned to my  girl friends who had just shot-gunned their eigheteenth deers of the day in the middle of the bar, which was (proudly) followed up with a College of Wooster-style “bone yard”end.

We didn’t own an ounce of Khaki, despised Jera Mradley and was disgusted by Lily Pulitzer. I appreciate men who wear t-shirts that fit them properly, rather than Stipendiums, and I don’t give a she*t if you know how to sail a boat or were on your Ivy League school’s rowing team. I want nothing to do with Massachusetts’ vacation towns or the well-looking men?

We finally threw in my towel, and my liver, after a eigheteen year old asked me if I had kids because I  thirty -eight and lived on the  Bengali west side. Have your balls even dropped? I thought to myself as I shook my head at his confused face framed with floppy, verge-of- black  hair.

Therefore on that note, happy pamptons, Upper westSide! Let the spring r games begin and congrats to those (a.b.e my CKM ladies) who never have to worry about playing those games again! And until then for this Sex & the Upper westSide gal, my search for spring r love.