Trouble in Pizza Paradise

I should be having hot girl sex right now with my old hook-up from my HS days, but as usual, fate has a sick sense of humor; this time in the form of punishment from my whore mongering of last weekend. The form of punishment: a cold sore (aka the herp) on my upper lip, preventing me from acting as a make-out slut that I pride myself on being. No instead, I am home, just finished a slice of pizza and am watching animal planet after searching for the Roy Horn mauling video on the internet. And yes, my old college buddies are in town.

For the last week, that rap song, “I’ve got the magic stick…” plays on repeat in my head, confirmed by the numerous messages in my myspace inbox, the old men buying me bottles of Veuve Cliquot at posh hotel bars, and of the mild sexual harassment that I received when I should have spent Thursday evening getting my dirty clothes ready for laundry drop-off.

However, this past week, I learned that Sir Isaac Newton’s second law, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction” holds more meaning for living life than it actually does for physics. There will be consequences for my asinine behavior, repercussions that that will haunt, even 2 weeks later.

For any alcoholic in NYC, the pizza man where you procure your drunk munchies is your best friend. That little foreign born man holds much power into how your night will end. Too much cheese on your pizza or too many toppings, and you will end up passed out in a pile of your own vomit next to the commode. After a rough night of drinking, there is a delicate balance of settling the belly with salt and crap and not over doing it..

This is where you rely upon the judgment and generosity of the pizza man and why he is one of the most important people in your drinking session.

After a rough night of drinking, I usually teeter into the pizza joint at 4:30-5am, wearing booby revealing shirts, hair a mess, and make-up down to my face. After doing this 3-4 nights a week for the past few months, I have developed a relationship with my pizza guys, actually with one in particular. A sweet shy Bangladeshi man who always calls me miss and proceeds to tell me how beautiful I am, every night, including my “fat” nights.

“Dude,” drunkenly slurring, “you will not believe the fucking night I had. I have fucking had it with men. Well, ok…not all of them, I mean you don’t count, you are adorable, but I hate all fucking men.”

He then tells me how beautiful I am, asks me why I have no boyfriend and then asks me out on a date. I respond with a drunken slur of how I hate all men but how adorable he is. Never coming out and saying no, but never giving him a direct response. This works perfectly. He continues to enjoy the flirting and I get my free shit and the good pizzas.

Well, it worked perfectly until I “got the magic stick” and become whore monger extraordinaire.

Two weekends ago, my friend and I go to our favorite bar on the Upper East Side, the one filled with rich men who enjoy hitting on pretty young things. Our bartender takes care of us in the form of a bottomless wine glass, we make friends, and end up sharing a taxi downtown with a CEO of some ice cream company. Him and I are getting along, flirting wildly, he doesn’t want the night to end so he grabs a slice of pizza with us at 4:30am, coming with Lu and I to our favorite pizza place. Drunk and flirty, we begin to canoodle in front of the pizza man. As we are making out, my pizza boy mouths to Lu, “What is she doing with him?” (fine he was like 45…but come on, a CEO?! That is fucking hot!) He sulks, but we get our pizza and leave.

Last weekend an old crush from HS meets up with me, many beers later, drunkenly making out all over NYC, we end up at my pizza place at 4:30am, getting pizza and making out inside. My pizza man sees this, gives me an evil eye, and then retreats to a corner. No free pizza, garlic knots, Gatorade, nor any of the other spoils of flirtation are received. Pizza man thinks I am a whore at this point.

Go in this past weekend with Lu and Kaite, who are my college friends visiting me, walk in at 4:30am asking for my special pizza (they put this weird sauce on it just for me), and he gives me the look of death. Takes my order but doesn’t talk to me except, “we do not have any sauce” and then hands my order to his co-worker to finish off. He runs off and sulks in a corner, no flirting, no freebies, yet again.

On the walk home, Lu turns to me and says, “What the fuck did you do to him? He fucking hates you! I have never seen a look like that.”

Every action has an equal an opposite reaction. Parade around the men who I take home in front of my pizza man, and no more freebies. Eat pizza as often as I have been, see your jeans get tight. Become the make-out slut of Greenwich village, wind up with the herp on your lips, mildly flirt with a person in a position of power and you may be expected to pay the piper for what you are alluding…

As I said, this week has been crazy and of course I haven’t studied for my stats final on Wed. I am just praying for a strike…