Savannah summer night

As you may have been expecting many of the stories I will be telling the next few weeks will involve men. So does the one for today. I would like to tell the tale of Robert William Winston IIII of Savannah, Georgia, USA. I met Bob, as I always called him, at a bar in the West Village in NYC. The bar I believe was an Irish Pub and I was there with my German friend to celebrate German Carnival. By the end of the night I, who had screamed from point one that I spoke no German whatsoever, was singing all the songs (yes in German) standing on top of tables.In short: I was 18, I was drunk, I was in NYC and I was having a really, really good time. The night itself was not very spectacular and I will not go into any more details about it, but around 3 o'clock I spotted Bob sitting at the other end of the bar. He was surprisingly sofisticated compared to the occasion and I was intrigued. So I went up to him. We had a couple of beers together and after about an hour decided to leave. He told me that we'd take a cab and that his place was close by. I never for a minute hesitated that this was a good idea and jumped in the cab waiving my friend goodbye. His house was a couple of blocks away, I think we couldn't have been sitting in the car for much more than 5 minutes. His apartment was on the third floor and although small very nice. He had a good amount of art, books and other collectables but not too much. His fridge was filled with many different beers and on his table was a box of cigars. His bed was by the balcony and we opened the doors and laid on his bed for the rest of the night, drinking the many different beers and smoking the cigars. Outside we could hear the city but also surprisingly enough see parts of the sky in between the many buildings surrounding us. The reason I always remember this particular experience is that Bob was much unlike my other lovers or man-friends. He was slightly old-fashioned and for the entire first night I spent with him, it did not at all feel like 2007 in NYC. It felt more like a warm damp summer night in 1955 in Georgia. Right away it was very clear that we were of very different backgrounds and so we had so many things to tell each other. The entire experience was exotic and exciting and new. The next morning he took me to a pub around the corner for breakfast. I was hung-over and could not take much more than a coffee and some toast, but he ordered Bloody Marys and a British breakfast complete with sausage and beans. We sat at the pub for some time and watched American football on the screen. The morning was much different from the night, but I was still enjoying myself. Outside the pub he hollered a cab for me and paid in advance sending me off, over the Brooklyn Bridge, to the place I then called home. Although we liked each other and met a couple times more, none of our meetings ever lived up to the first, magical night, that we spent in his bed with doors wide open laying naked into the NYC night but feeling completely disconnected from our surroundings. Years later I wrote him on facebook, sending him a little document (a story) about him quite similar to this exact one. I asked me if he remembered our little night and what he thought of my story. The only response I ever got was: ha-ha, yes I think so... It crushed my heart in small but definite ways and destroyed something that was, always, one of my favorite stories and memories.