THE VICARIOUS AVATAR Part II

Before we (literally) pick up O’s blood trail, let me give you a little background on where this guy is hunting. I used to hunt the same woods. Back in my day it was “fair chase,” plenty of bucks, but mostly sixes and eights. That was before the fence went up. Nowadays the island of Manhattan is a well-stocked “canned hunt” preserve, where only the rich elites (and their hangers-on) can afford to hunt. Bagging a twelve pointer is still tough, but way more commonplace than you would imagine. My buddy has got himself hooked up with stands and guide service from Harlem to Bushwick. On this night, he and O were headed to the East Village - Ludlow and Houston – my old stomping grounds, to lay up for the night. I’m sure there has to be a stand or two of mine that hasn’t rotted out of a neighborhood tree. Careful climbing the ladder. But enough of me. Back to O. “I was strategically wiping the vomit from my mouth, when I heard the word “period.” I still couldn’t feel my legs. “Do you have any tampons?” I asked her. She shook her head. “No worries.” She grinned, “I’ll use toilet paper.” I had rented a friend’s pad for the month and remembered we were also out of TP. Finally, we found a bodega that was open. O threw opened the door and announced to two startled Pakistani gentlemen “I’m BLEEDING!” Before they could dial 911, I explained that her trauma was not worth calling an ambulance. No, they didn’t have tampons…….but they did have toilet paper. Phew. We got home and O disappeared into the bathroom. When she re-emerged, she was dragging a tail of white paper and wearing a quizzical look on her beautifully symmetrical face. “I’ve been here before…..oh no……” Then she went silent. Turned out the guy who I was renting the place from, had also “dated” O. What the fuck? “He was way too handsy…” she confessed. “Not rapey, but pushy.” O wanted to leave immediately. (A good hunter will intuit when his prey is getting hinky, nose in the air, checking the wind, stomping the inter-digital gland with those stilettos, getting ready to snort and blow the scene). My friend didn’t dare move for fear of spooking her. Then, thankfully, O thought better. She was way too fucked up to find the front door – even in a studio apartment. We never got our clothes off – just passed out on the bed. In the morning I bought her a nice breakfast and told her I’d drive her to get her bag that she left at the CHELSEA and to her modeling gig. “What’s your name again?” she asked, leaning over her scrambled eggs. I told her, again. Then, if all this wasn’t crazy enough, she cocked her head and squinted her cute little eyes. “I KNOW YOU!” HOLY SHIT – AGAIN! I have no idea what her fucking “awakening” and this bizzarro series of events is trying to tell me, but we HAD met a year ago, exchanged info and followed each other on insta. End of story. (Then he dropped her off at her gig and called me. I took a nap, got my mail, went to the bank, bought groceries, and played with Cheeky and got wood in. That was my day. I asked if he was going to see her again? What do you think?) This could be the one.