The end of pretending the metaphorical toilet wasn’t flooding.
At twenty-five I was a single, aspiring writer and performer, living in the East Village and navigating my severed relationship between dating and sex. I was careful and deliberate in the sexual choices I made, having embraced eighteen months of self-imposed celibacy my junior and senior years of college. I didn’t carelessly sleep around. But when it came to flirting and first dates, I failed to develop the same level of impenetrable security. I was a classic romantic comedy protagonist racking up hilarious story beginnings, yet hopelessly awaiting my chick flick denouement.
That began to change five summers ago in late July. The day began at my friend’s Bronx apartment as we started celebrating his birthday, my first time really hanging out in the Bronx. Then, six of us headed into Manhattan in an overloaded sedan. The birthday boy planned a self-inflicted birthday roast, and he wanted to hold the ceremony on my brand-new building’s roof, with it’s killer vie…