New York Scores Another Naive Newcomer

Seven years ago, I moved to New York City from Arkansas. My boyfriend followed shortly thereafter. We were blissful, excited to explore the unknown together. We strolled hand in hand around the Village. We peered over our new city from the top of the Empire State building. We poked fun of psychotic dog freaks at the Westminster show. A mere five months later, of course, he informed me that he could no longer resist his innate urge to screw other men, and he left me. I sobbed hysterically all the way home on the subway, and nary a stranger offered me a hankie or inquired as to whether I was in danger of hyperventillating (which I was). This relative anonymity can be part of what makes the city so great. But I didn't think so at the time. Nowadays, of course, I'd probably run into someone I know on the subway anyway, and they'd have the kindness to take me me home and loan me a Percocet, or at least to happy hour for a few dozen shots of tequila.

Fast forward to 2005, and it appears I (or at least my spot-on hosting skillz) have convinced yet another unsuspecting young fellow to try the Big Apple on for size. My friend Pete, who wrote this glowing review of the city, visited a few weeks ago from Salt Lake, and in a flash of brilliance (stupidity? naivete?) has decided to dump his condo, car, and cat, and move east.

Pete loved my brilliant friends. He loved the ubiquitous bacon, egg and cheese. He even seemed to love waiting in an ungodly long line at the recently-dissed Freeman's with the other pretty idiots for an overpriced plate of heirloom tomatoes.

Poor Pete. It's not fair he arrived on the one weekend of the year when all the stars were aligned. I mean, for God's sake, the second time my brother came to visit, he witnessed a junkie committing armed robbery at the dry cleaner's across the street from my loft. Pete, on the other hand, thinks he's in for a nonstop buffet of tasty dirty-water dogs and a consistent female-male ratio of 3.2 to 1 (although, to be fair, the latter he can probably count on).

I cringe to think of the day when Pete will step into a two-foot puddle of grimey February slush and have to walk around with it in his sock all day. How about those months where you don't venture outside the boroughs for 16 weekends running and swear you'd sell a kidney to see a blade of grass? How he'll regret his decision when a trannie aggressively tries to bum a smoke from him in Chelsea, or his seat-mate on the subway has just coated the inside of his pants with a fresh layer of poo.

I'm glad my friend had fun, and he's in for an adventure. But, Pete, don't hold me responsible when the inevitable pain and suffering begin -- and watch out, the last one turned gay.