Supermarket Sex

Some nights end in a first kiss. Some nights end face down in the living room of your best friend’s apartment. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, your night ends in the prepared foods aisle of your local supermarket. It was on one of these magical nights, in the dim glow of the Morton Williams heat lamps, that I met Adam.

Buying supermarket lo mein at 3 in the morning is not something that I am proud of, but it is something that I have done on several occasions. There is something extremely gratifying about knowing that, in terms of dietary choices, you have effectively and shamelessly hit rock bottom. The decision to eat supermarket lo mein is never accompanied by promises that you will “finally start that diet on Monday”, but by the sublime realization that you have become the most disgusting version of yourself that you will ever possibly be.

Whilst I was standing in the aforementioned prepared foods aisle, carefully perusing the wide variety of undercooked meats and overcooked carbs, I noticed that I was being watched by a man, roughly ten feet away, with dark hair and a pair of glasses that would’ve made Harry Potter shit his pants. Jackpot.

His name was Adam and he was a thirty-year old Israeli immigrant who had been living in New York City for almost a decade. I assume that he had a job and I assume that he told me about it. In any case, those details are fuzzy. After a brief exchange that can only be described as clumsy and drunken, Adam invited me back to his apartment for some heavy petting.

As we walked the four blocks from the supermarket to his apartment, Adam kept telling me how “beautiful” I was. I knew that this was blatantly untrue because not only had I recently ingested a fraction of a pot brownie and at least seven shots of tequila, I was also filled to the brim with ten dollars worth of taquitos. In essence, I vaguely resembled the Michelin man after a night on the town in Tijuana.

When we got to his apartment, Adam blocked the door with his body and plainly uttered the phrase, “It’s small.” This was understandably misleading. It was not small. The apartment, however, was. Adam’s apartment looked like something out of a sad, crowd-funded web series about struggling Brooklyn screenwriters. I am relatively certain that I have occupied handicapped bathroom stalls larger than the shoebox where Adam presumably eats, sleeps, and steals his neighbor’s Wi-Fi.

Once inside, Adam and I proceeded to sit on his bed in complete silence. In an effort to break the silence, Adam awkwardly placed his hand on my thigh and began whispering something in Hebrew. I took this as a signal to get undressed. Much to my surprise, this endeavor was well received. I expended a tremendous amount of energy attempting to appear sensual as I removed my sweater (which I had purchased from Old Navy) and unbearably tight jeans (which were also from Old Navy).

After my titillating striptease, Adam and I did all of the usual stuff, short of actually having sex. None of it was noteworthy, except for the twenty minutes that I spent simply sucking on his fingers (because apparently that’s a thing that people are into now).

As I was redressing myself in my bargain brand ensemble, Adam grabbed my hand and told me that we should “do this again.” I was unsure how to respond, given that I didn’t have or want his number and that I did not intend on making a habit of hanging out in the local supermarket at 3 a.m. waiting to be cruised by fairly attractive Israeli immigrants. In a classic act of avoidance, I merely said “sure.” Everyone knows that “sure” means “no.” I knew it and Adam knew it. It wasn’t a particularly veiled response but it was the best that I could muster.

It was around 5 a.m. when I put on my boots, let myself out, and walk-jogged to the elevator. I spent the entire walk home trying to get the smell of his apartment out of my nose. It had only been a few minutes but I already wanted to forget him.

Since that night, I have not at all adjusted my overzealous attitude towards Old Navy, tequila or Morton Williams supermarkets. If there is some greater lesson to be gleaned form this experience, unfortunately, I have not gleaned it. What I do know is that, as an almost-20-year old, I have made and continue to make questionable decisions. All I can do is hope that, the next time nature calls, I will have enough self-respect to fool around with a guy from Whole Foods.