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Orit is a painter and writer living in Tel Aviv. She is currently working on her first book, entitled The Fountain of Esther, a creative comparison of the Book of Esther and The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand.
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By Orit
December 24, 2004
I saw him across the empty bar -- his killer smile, bright blue eyes, chiseled features, and manly facial shadow. He was decked in a black spandex tee and low-rise jeans revealing the edge of his boxers.
He was mixing drinks at Lanski's, Israel's largest pick-up bar, notorious for its hot bartenders. I nicknamed him Calvin; he looked like he just walked out of a Calvin Klein underwear ad.
I came alone to meet with Lanski's owner, who was interviewing waitresses for a new cafe, but my mind was fixated elsewhere.
Calvin was bending over to grab a drink from the mini-fridge. Suddenly, he began to move towards me, and my heart jumped.
"What do you want?" he asked, leaning into me, looking into my eyes.
Oh, if only you knew.
"Uh, I'll take a Corona," I coyly answered, catching my breath.
Was this the start of something wonderful?
I didn't stay long enough to find out. The owner interrupted our moment.
"That's it?" Calvin asked.
"That's it." I replied. I should have said "not unless you invite me for another" but reality hit me. I couldn't ditch the interview, and I doubted my chances with Calvin. I figured that if he wasn't gay then he probably has a girlfriend. The bar probably hired him as marketing tool and paid him extra to lead girls on.
He must make good money because I also left him a generous tip and told him the extra was for the smile. He shot me another. Maybe it did mean something?
I had to go back and find out.
So one Friday night I dragged a friend of mine to Lanski's. This time Calvin's section was packed with his flock of eager groupies.
Calvin, I realized, is like Israel's "Smith," the nickname of Samantha's hunky boyfriend in "Sex in the City." She was a patron and he was the waiter at "Raw," a fancy vegan restaurant in Manhattan.
Hundreds of women stuffed their faces with okra soup and raw carrot cake just to vie for his assets. But Samantha persisted, as she always does. She was not ashamed or afraid. She wanted him. She knew she could get him. And she did.
In the beginning they just banged each other's brains out, but Smith turned out to be humble and sweet as pie. So Samantha, a publicist, boosted his acting career by casting him as the "Absolut Hunk" for Absolut Vodka ads. Eventually, their physical bond led to a spiritual one, they fell in love, and lived happily ever after....
I worked in PR, Calvin's almost like a waiter, so maybe life can really imitate TV?
Finally, I catch his attention, muster up my inner Samantha-ness, but only end up saying, emotionless, "What beer do you have on tap?"
I had wanted to ask, charmingly and sensually, "do you remember me?" but I retreated. I didn't want to be just another groupie. I wanted to be special.
Okay, so he was only a bartender, but we had something -- didn't we? -- and he should make the first move. But the only move he made was to hand me my beer, briskly.
"Any chance seats will open up here?" I tried again.
"There are three people in line," he said, lifelessly. "You can go try some other section."
My heart dropped. "You mean you don't care if I sit with you?" I wanted to implore. "Is it over?"
Apparently it was. I sulked away, wondering why I often freeze with a man I'm physically attracted to. Like at a party not long ago, I was introduced to two men -- one tall and handsome and the other wimpy and average looking.
Both seem interested, but I gave the cutie the cold shoulder and freely chatted with his dorkier counterpart. He was safer, he couldn't hurt me, and I had less risk of rejection. And if he did reject me, it wouldn't be such a big tragedy anyway.
At the same time, as I glanced Calvin's way, I noticed that the substandard looking girls had no qualms about letting Calvin know they wanted him.
One heavy-set girl with serious acne hollered, "Hey baby, can I have another?" She grabbed his face and kissed him and Calvin only laughed and smiled, sweetly.
The prettier ones, on the other hand, coolly held their wine and cigarettes, as if Calvin was the last man on earth they would deign to kiss. The better looking men, too, sat quietly with their beers, to themselves, while the stocky and shabby guys freely hit on Calvin's fresh meat.
Paradoxically, it seems that many men and women who have a strong sense of their own attractiveness are the least prone to do the "picking-up" at pick-up bar. As long as they don't try, they protect their ego and invulnerable self-image. They passively wait to be pick-up by those who are also passively waiting -- and everyone goes home alone.
What would have happened had I emulated Samantha -- had I not been afraid of my ego or desires -- had I fearlessly remained at the bar just for him? Would I have gone home with my Absolut Hunk? Or was he just not interested? Or was he not a picker-upper, but simply cast by Lanski's to star in female fantasies? Seems I'll never know.
I am comforted, though, by two interpretations of my failed night: The practical, wise one says: My shyness is simply a built-in defense mechanism against my own shallowness so that I don't choose a man based on his looks, but on his character. It's the anti-Samantha antidote.
But I prefer the fantastical interpretation: Calvin shooed me away because he too was afraid of rejection -- he spurned me before I could hurt him.
Oh, Calvin! Let us not be afraid. Just sweep me in your arms and let the night and city take us wherever we want to go....
Views expressed by the author do not
necessarily reflect those of israelinsider.
 
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