The Boy Who Followed Me Home

It's a fantasy of mine, to have the perfect story, about the perfect guy, and how you met. I feel that these stories are one and million, and for those who say they have met in such a "perfect" way, I believe they are lying. However, for a brief moment, I believed that I was in the middle of what could be, a tremendous and totally romantic story.

I was on the 4 train, heading back to the Upper East Side. Well dressed with aviator sunglasses on, plugged into his ipod, there he was, sitting across from me on the subway. It was a Friday night and I was heading home from work to a big night of nothing. I see him sitting there, smile, glancing over at him every so often, while grooving along to my own play list. I get off at my stop and he follows. I shake it a little extra, feeling confident as I stride home. Looking behind me, I notice he is still there. Getting a little high off the attention and excitement, we continue to walk, this time side by side, with 87th street between us. We keep glancing over to each other, with no moves made, resigning to let him make the first move.

As we cross over second avenue, the construction blocks him and I believe he is gone, but am thankful to have a bit of excitement for the evening. As I head up the stairs and into my building, I turn around and there he is - waving me back to the stoop. Amazed, I step outside and start a conversation with this man, thanking him for walking me home.

He's from Venezuela and asked me to his apartment for "good music and great wine". I appreciate his boldness, recognizing that American men are missing this bravado. After politely declining (I'm not stupid!), I offer my number and the option for drinks later in the week.

Instead of a fairy tale, I end up with a nightmare - which I have turned into nothing more than another story. We met later that week for drinks. I do believe he was high on cocaine and definitely not able to sit still, stop talking, or stop touching me. After two beers I leave, with him trailing behind, telling me that he can't wait to see me again. This turns into numerous text messages and phone calls, at all hours, without leaving a message. After three weeks without responding, he has finally stopped.

So here ends the story of the boy who followed me home. Like so many other stories, it started with such potential. Just goes to show that fairy tales aren't reality in this city, but it still won't stop me from believing.