I was recently lurking in a corner of Manhattan with a friend from good old New England. In boarding school we played squash together and both wrote the type of short stories typical of teenage girls (that is to say: involving a sexual awakening, an intrigue with a male teacher, an allusion to masochistic behavior, and/or a distressing incident with the mother character). Now I am still churning out those “lost girl” stories, and she is living the post-college life in Manhattan. Unfortunately, due to the current hiring freeze, she is also getting a taste for the unemployed life. As a delightful, creative, well-educated girl, who just so happens to look like a Ralph Lauren model, one would think that the sin city would be obsessed by her…

So she braved the waters of waitressing, at one of those painfully hip downtown cafés that serves strong espressos and food that is vaguely Moroccan, in a Cuban diner-inspired interior, to an artist/celeb clientele. And that’s how she met her very first NYC Wanker of the Week. So there she was: the down-to-earth New England girl turned struggling waitress on a first date with Hollywood pretty boy Matt Dillon.

He was a mimbo-wanker combination, with an almost embarrassing penchant for dirty talk. She was fired from the hip downtown café job. The more experienced waitress-slash-models were vicious towards her. Maybe they were just jealous that Matt Dillon asked her out instead of them. Incidentally, I met him once at an over-priced vegan restaurant on the Upper East Side. He was wearing a puffy orange parka and oversized (women’s?) sunglasses. I vaguely recall that he tried to pick me up. And so it goes.

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