I have to get this one out. There are so many pieces that I am writing right now and so much going on in the world but this is the one that I wake up to each morning.
Last year when my daily morning email arrived from, The NY Daily News, I quickly scanned the headlines and noticed the phrase: Headless Body in Topless Bar. The email only mentioned that the writer who'd coined that phrase had died. And then I heard someone knocking at my door and I failed to open the story or follow up on it at a later time. It was a phrase I was well familiar with and one that made me, as well as others, chuckle.
What I did not know last year is that the writer of that phrase was a man I had dated back in the 1990's.Vincent Musetto.
Everyone called him Vinnie. The only reason I didn't call him Vinnie is I think I started laughing when he suggested I call him Vinnie. It was such a goombah name and I couldn't say Vinnie without sounding like I was his Italian mother. And he introduced himself to me as Vincent. So for me, there was no going back. I did later feel more comfortable saying Vinnie without laughing and he said he preferred and liked that I called him Vincent. So Vincent it remained. Back in the 90's for a good many years I had an ongoing personal ad running in the New York Press a weekly free paper that had the best personal ads in the city. They were free and the ads, unlike the Village Voice, seemed to be read by people really wanting to meet nice people as opposed to people looking for sexual encounters for rough sex in dark alleys. (In another blog entry I have written about some of my dating experiences during that time).
Vincent had answered one of my ads and we dated for about six months. Other than him telling me that he wrote for The Post and me confirming it by seeing his picture in the entertainment section. I never inquired deeply into his work, and he didn't talk about it. All he divulged about his job was: I get a lot of perks.
There were so many things about him that were special, surprising, and really sweet. He knew how to make women, me purr and I don't mean that in a sexual way. He looked at women, connected with them and loved them. There wasn't a speck of misogyny in him. He liked their bodies, the way they walked, and he liked to play with women like a child play with things it loves. He was confident in a shy, perhaps nerdy, uncomplicated way. He was direct in a way that you never felt like an avalanche was on its way. He was funny, quick witted and he had a way of speaking in that you barely saw his mouth move. He had the kind of smile that you yearned to see and did what was needed to make it appear. An easy job.
I have snapshots of being with him that are so vivid that I have replayed them in my head over and over again because they captured moments in time that were incredibly beautiful, lasting only moments but made indelible by their simplicity.
We are in the East Village on 7th street and 2nd Avenue. It begins to shower and we duck for cover under an awning. We are standing side bye side, he to my left. I am taller than Vincent. We are silent watching the rain. We are not in a hurry to go anywhere and we are not looking for a cab. We are just two people watching the rain. He moves closer to me and puts his hand in my left Levi jeans pocket and with his pinkie he discreetly traces the crevice which runs from my mons pubis to my hip. He then sees a cab, dashes out into the street to hail it, and off we go. That was the extent of my intimacy with Vincent but it was one of the sexiest moments of my life.
I'd never dated a man with a beard and in the beginning I was a bit put off by his beard because I found it difficult to see his mouth move. I'd never touched a beard before. He stroked it often and I began to notice that his beard participated in his thinking process. I also think it felt good to him to touch it.
And then one day I touched it too.
That beard was like buttah. Soft, clean, not a thing coarse about it and I understood why he stroked it all the time. It was delicious. Absolutely delicious. Years later when I lived with Blanche she used to imitate someone she had once known by repeating what they had always said to her which was: You haven't lived until you've kissed a man with a beard! She of course recounted this story with her distinct French accent and every time she told this story it was Vincent that I thought of. It was the kind of beard that I thought to myself: If that hair was all over his body…
On a lunch break from Padell Nadell I'm walking uptown on Broadway with my co-worker Gerald on our way to Grays Papaya for hot dogs. Vincent is walking south. We stop and greet one another and I make introductions. We part and go our separate ways. Shortly after I return to work I receive a phone call from Vincent asking me: Who was that guy you were with? I don't want anyone to imagine that call was aggressive or unfounded. It wasn't. But I also think he placed the call because I don't think he liked dating women that dated other men and I think he liked me enough to want to check that I was who I said I was. Too, I think he was surprised to see me with anyone else other than him. Like why would I be dating anyone else but him? That aspect of Vincent's personality came to suggest to me that when I knew him he was struggling with some personal demons and sadness. Not demons of rage but demons of insecurity. Not related to women per se, but that something was happening in his life that was causing him to have to rethink things. That on some level what he had believed in was no longer true. I know no details, except a few, but now that I am older, looking back, I understand things differently.
Once he confirmed that Gerald was not a date but a coworker I asked him if that was all he wanted from the call as I had to get back to work. He said, no and then spoke the following: I recognized you walking towards me long before you saw me. I want you to know that you walk beautifully in heels. I have tickets to The Lincoln Center Lifetime Achievement Award for Jimmy Stewart, do you wanna go? Me: What sort of attire does it call for? Him again: If you wear what I saw you in today you'll be perfect. Think about it. I gotta go. I'll call you later. I went in suede kitten heeled pointy toed witch shoes and a black Italian seersucker dress and he wore a black baseball cap. He was so easy to be with and he made me feel gorgeous.
Men like that are rare and in my life there have been only two others. Men like that never objectify women, never bring attention to specific body parts; they look you in the eye at all times but they are always talking to your vagina. I don't want that to sound vulgar, because there was nothing vulgar about him and I am afraid in today's anti-male atmosphere someone might interpret that in the wrong way. There is a way I liked to be flirted with and phrases such as 'nice ass' don't cut it for me. Something more complicated must be present for me to feel feminine and interested in a man. That chemistry, that tension, the dynamic of what is unspoken needs to be floating in the air somewhere between us.
Vincent had been on my mind of late. There was something that I wanted to tell him about my life today that back then I didn't understand about him. I wanted to commiserate and to say hello. I got on the Internet and that phrase: Headless Body In Topless Bar popped up when I googled Post+Vincent. Today I learned that he has passed and I learned that he was the author of that famous NY headline. and all I really want to say now is:
Thank you Vincent. You were one of the gems in my life and now I've gone and said everything I wanted to say.
Last year when my daily morning email arrived from, The NY Daily News, I quickly scanned the headlines and noticed the phrase: Headless Body in Topless Bar. The email only mentioned that the writer who'd coined that phrase had died. And then I heard someone knocking at my door and I failed to open the story or follow up on it at a later time. It was a phrase I was well familiar with and one that made me, as well as others, chuckle.
What I did not know last year is that the writer of that phrase was a man I had dated back in the 1990's.Vincent Musetto.
Everyone called him Vinnie. The only reason I didn't call him Vinnie is I think I started laughing when he suggested I call him Vinnie. It was such a goombah name and I couldn't say Vinnie without sounding like I was his Italian mother. And he introduced himself to me as Vincent. So for me, there was no going back. I did later feel more comfortable saying Vinnie without laughing and he said he preferred and liked that I called him Vincent. So Vincent it remained. Back in the 90's for a good many years I had an ongoing personal ad running in the New York Press a weekly free paper that had the best personal ads in the city. They were free and the ads, unlike the Village Voice, seemed to be read by people really wanting to meet nice people as opposed to people looking for sexual encounters for rough sex in dark alleys. (In another blog entry I have written about some of my dating experiences during that time).
Vincent had answered one of my ads and we dated for about six months. Other than him telling me that he wrote for The Post and me confirming it by seeing his picture in the entertainment section. I never inquired deeply into his work, and he didn't talk about it. All he divulged about his job was: I get a lot of perks.
There were so many things about him that were special, surprising, and really sweet. He knew how to make women, me purr and I don't mean that in a sexual way. He looked at women, connected with them and loved them. There wasn't a speck of misogyny in him. He liked their bodies, the way they walked, and he liked to play with women like a child play with things it loves. He was confident in a shy, perhaps nerdy, uncomplicated way. He was direct in a way that you never felt like an avalanche was on its way. He was funny, quick witted and he had a way of speaking in that you barely saw his mouth move. He had the kind of smile that you yearned to see and did what was needed to make it appear. An easy job.
I have snapshots of being with him that are so vivid that I have replayed them in my head over and over again because they captured moments in time that were incredibly beautiful, lasting only moments but made indelible by their simplicity.
We are in the East Village on 7th street and 2nd Avenue. It begins to shower and we duck for cover under an awning. We are standing side bye side, he to my left. I am taller than Vincent. We are silent watching the rain. We are not in a hurry to go anywhere and we are not looking for a cab. We are just two people watching the rain. He moves closer to me and puts his hand in my left Levi jeans pocket and with his pinkie he discreetly traces the crevice which runs from my mons pubis to my hip. He then sees a cab, dashes out into the street to hail it, and off we go. That was the extent of my intimacy with Vincent but it was one of the sexiest moments of my life.
I'd never dated a man with a beard and in the beginning I was a bit put off by his beard because I found it difficult to see his mouth move. I'd never touched a beard before. He stroked it often and I began to notice that his beard participated in his thinking process. I also think it felt good to him to touch it.
And then one day I touched it too.
That beard was like buttah. Soft, clean, not a thing coarse about it and I understood why he stroked it all the time. It was delicious. Absolutely delicious. Years later when I lived with Blanche she used to imitate someone she had once known by repeating what they had always said to her which was: You haven't lived until you've kissed a man with a beard! She of course recounted this story with her distinct French accent and every time she told this story it was Vincent that I thought of. It was the kind of beard that I thought to myself: If that hair was all over his body…
On a lunch break from Padell Nadell I'm walking uptown on Broadway with my co-worker Gerald on our way to Grays Papaya for hot dogs. Vincent is walking south. We stop and greet one another and I make introductions. We part and go our separate ways. Shortly after I return to work I receive a phone call from Vincent asking me: Who was that guy you were with? I don't want anyone to imagine that call was aggressive or unfounded. It wasn't. But I also think he placed the call because I don't think he liked dating women that dated other men and I think he liked me enough to want to check that I was who I said I was. Too, I think he was surprised to see me with anyone else other than him. Like why would I be dating anyone else but him? That aspect of Vincent's personality came to suggest to me that when I knew him he was struggling with some personal demons and sadness. Not demons of rage but demons of insecurity. Not related to women per se, but that something was happening in his life that was causing him to have to rethink things. That on some level what he had believed in was no longer true. I know no details, except a few, but now that I am older, looking back, I understand things differently.
Once he confirmed that Gerald was not a date but a coworker I asked him if that was all he wanted from the call as I had to get back to work. He said, no and then spoke the following: I recognized you walking towards me long before you saw me. I want you to know that you walk beautifully in heels. I have tickets to The Lincoln Center Lifetime Achievement Award for Jimmy Stewart, do you wanna go? Me: What sort of attire does it call for? Him again: If you wear what I saw you in today you'll be perfect. Think about it. I gotta go. I'll call you later. I went in suede kitten heeled pointy toed witch shoes and a black Italian seersucker dress and he wore a black baseball cap. He was so easy to be with and he made me feel gorgeous.
Men like that are rare and in my life there have been only two others. Men like that never objectify women, never bring attention to specific body parts; they look you in the eye at all times but they are always talking to your vagina. I don't want that to sound vulgar, because there was nothing vulgar about him and I am afraid in today's anti-male atmosphere someone might interpret that in the wrong way. There is a way I liked to be flirted with and phrases such as 'nice ass' don't cut it for me. Something more complicated must be present for me to feel feminine and interested in a man. That chemistry, that tension, the dynamic of what is unspoken needs to be floating in the air somewhere between us.
Vincent had been on my mind of late. There was something that I wanted to tell him about my life today that back then I didn't understand about him. I wanted to commiserate and to say hello. I got on the Internet and that phrase: Headless Body In Topless Bar popped up when I googled Post+Vincent. Today I learned that he has passed and I learned that he was the author of that famous NY headline. and all I really want to say now is:
Thank you Vincent. You were one of the gems in my life and now I've gone and said everything I wanted to say.
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