In a city full of hot twentysomethings all looking for love...why is it that there’s no f*cking air-conditioning on any of my trains??? I shvitzed so much on the subway this morning, I was sticking to that pole like a heavyset stripper sticking to a pole. (And if I were not in fact a heavyset stripper myself, that would have been a very clever metaphor.)
See, I tried to begin with an insightful and subjective query in the style of Carrie Bradshaw to commemorate the SATC movie. It did not work. The movie sure did though! I finally saw the damn thing, and despite a slew of pans by a bunch of crotchety old critics who've obviously never had sex in any city, I'm all about it! A fan of the show (naturally), I went in with few expectations, and some slight hesitations that on its journey to the big screen it might lose some of the precious New York sensibility, and the sort of complex simplicity that made it so special. I was delighted by every minute though, and found the whole thing to be a big, flashy, perfect exclamation point to cap off the series and to officially consummate my relationship with it. For the few of you who have not yet seen it, I will go no further so as not to spoil any of the plot for you..........(they all die.)
Anyway, it put me in the mood, and last night I stopped by the ol' Virgin Mega Store to pick up a couple of SATC seasons on DVD. I'd just grabbed seasons #4 and #5 when I realized that I needed to make a little #1. So I swung by the Men's Room and who did I find standing at the urinal in full garb? Spiderman. Don't get too excited, now. It wasn't the real Spiderman. (I know, I thought that too. But I got in for a much closer look, and the real Spiderman is circumcised.) It was one of those guys they dress up and put out in front of Virgin and around Times Square to promote stuff and take pictures with poorly dressed tourists and families from Staten Island who couldn't afford the trip to Disney World. Anyway, it was a bizarre sight. I mean, who knew those outfits unzipped at the crotch? He lifted the mask just over his brow, and I was quite pleasantly surprised - He was pretty damn cute! "Hey man. Would you do me a favor and help me zip up my Spidey suit", he asked as he flushed, ever so politely. Well this was all too wonderful to be true. "Would I??", I replied, much too excitedly, "Does Toby Maguire's wife, Jennifer Meyer, look like Seabiscuit?? Of course I would!!"
I began fastening him up in the back, and for a split second caught a glimpse of our life together: I'd zip up his Spidey suit every morning before sending him off to work the streets; he'd velcro the polyester cape to my Superman pajamas every night before bed....It was a match made in aisle 9 at Toys R Us. He was absolutely flirting with me, so I flirted back (the way any laaady will when approached by a fake superhero in the john) and in the heat of the moment, we both seemed to be gazing at our reflections united in the mirror before us and thinking the same thing: My hair looked per-fect. I mean, seriously...perfect. I was positively fetching. And he was covered from head to toe in rubber; what could be safer?
He began to lower the mask over his face, and I was just about to tell him to hang upside down from the automatic hand towel dispenser so that we could make out, when....we both heard a tiny gasp behind us and turned around. There, in stone-cold, wide-eyed shock, horror, and disbelief was a little boy wearing a Spiderman t-shirt. He'd obviously just witnessed the exchange between me and the unmasked phony, and seemed to temporarily stop blinking and breathing. (TOMMY, CAN YOU HEAR ME??!) The three of us just stood there in silence for about half a minute. It was as if little Cindy Loo Who had just walked in on the Grinch and Whoville's Homo-Who about to hook up down in Ho-ville. And before we could say "it's not what you think" and explain gay sex to him, the kid ran out, calling for his mother.
The moment was devastated beyond repair, and probably for the best. We'd both come to our senses by now, and realized that there was no future for us after all. He's a designer-impostor comic book crime fighter, and I'm Jewish. (Also, the smell coming from the stall behind us had become slightly less than bearable.) I zipped up his crotch and whispered, "Go get 'em, Tiger." He ogled me one last time through the lopsided holes in his torn rubber mask and ran out the bathroom door, not before slipping on some wet toilet paper on the floor. It was like the end of every great action/adventure summer blockbuster with romantic undertones that takes place in a Men's Room.
I ripped those pesky anti-theft stickers off the Sex and the City DVDs under my shirt, chucked them into my purse, slipped past security and walked out the main entrance the same way I'd come in; single, independent, and hiding from the feds. But as I walked down the street and past my overly-friendly neighborhood Spiderman snapping pictures of himself with disposable cameras and waving like a schmuck, I felt a new breeze in my hair and an extra little hop in my stride (I still hadn't peed.) I was gonna be OK. I just kept thinking about that little boy in the bathroom; another innocent childhood fantasy, tragically fallen victim to the cruel realities of man-on-man love. Soon he'll find out that the Tooth Fairy's just a big leather queen with five o'clock shadow and bad breath. Poor kid. I feel awful about the whole thing, really. I'm just glad he wasn't there last week to see me give Elmo a handjob.