How my friend Alex earned his unusual nickname during his first visit to New York.
Tuesdays in New York are pretty quiet. The streets of the East Village are deserted. The Big Apple never sleeps, sure, but from Sunday to Wednesday, you have to know where to look to find the action or the party people. Personally, I love going out on these days because that’s when you meet the real artists, eccentrics, and scenesters.
My friend Alex was visiting New York for the first time. We headed to one of my favorite bars, scoring a spot on the couch and sipping on Jamaican beer. Unfortunately, it was a dull night. “Come on, let’s check out another place,” I suggested. Alex nodded, and we downed our beers before heading to Sophie’s on 5th Street between A and B. Sophie’s is usually buzzing, filled with OG New Yorkers and East Village die-hards who haven’t been driven to Brooklyn by the yuppies. But even here, the vibe was off, so we decided to call it a night.
I convinced Alex to stop by the first bar for one last drink before heading home. The scene hadn’t improved, but we ordered another Red Stripe anyway. At the bar next to us were two women. As Alex and I chatted in German, one of them turned to me and asked in German, “Where are you from?” She was Peruvian, studying in New York, and had spent some time in Munich. “Ah, that’s where I was born and lived for a while,” I replied. And just like that, we were deep in conversation. Meanwhile, Alex was chatting in English with her friend.
Barely five minutes later, I glanced over at Alex to find him already making out with his new acquaintance. Wow, that was fast. Alex is usually reserved, not much of a player. But hey, good for him. I continued my small talk with the Peruvian woman, but there was no spark between us. While things were heating up behind me, we just didn’t click.
At 3 a.m., the bar closed. What now? I was tired, had work in the morning, and was ready for bed. “Why don’t you come over? We have some weed,” the Peruvian woman suggested with a smile. Before I could decide, Alex and his new flame were already in a cab. I figured I’d better tag along to make sure my friend got home safely.
The Peruvian woman lived in a tiny downtown Manhattan studio. Really, it was a closet—a bed, a wardrobe, barely a meter of space between them, and a few shelves lining the walls. We sat on the bed while Alex got cozy on the floor with his new friend. I couldn’t believe my eyes—this was so unlike Alex. Quiet waters run deep, I suppose.
Things got pretty intense on the floor. The Peruvian woman and I just watched, feeling awkward. “Ah, screw it,” I thought and made a move. Her response was immediate: “If you think we’re going to have sex, you’re mistaken,” she said firmly. “Alright, alright, I wasn’t serious anyway,” I thought and stayed put.
We decided to leave our friends to it and went for a walk. The dawn was breaking as we reached the Brooklyn Bridge. The air was warm, and the view of Manhattan at first light was stunning—almost romantic, though I was clearly with the wrong woman. On the way back, we stopped at a 24-hour diner for breakfast. She had forgotten her wallet. “Alright, it’s on me,” I said. What choice did I have?
By now, our friends should have been finished. It was 6 a.m., so we hopped into a cab back to her place. On the way, she started feeling sick. Alcohol, a joint, and breakfast didn’t mix well. The African cab driver panicked and drove like a maniac. “Hang in there! We’re almost there!” I reassured her, feeling like I was rushing a pregnant woman to the hospital.
As soon as we arrived, she puked on the nearest tree. Lovely. Then we knocked on the door, only to find it locked—she’d forgotten her key. We banged like maniacs until Alex finally opened the door, standing there in his underwear with an erection.
I pushed her past him into the room. She needed her bed and some peace, but Alex’s new friend was lying there. Naked.
The apartment was a mess. Clothes were scattered everywhere. Drawers and the wardrobe were open. What the hell had happened? The Peruvian woman slumped into the only chair, stunned into silence. I just wanted to get out of there. Had Alex lost it? Had he assaulted her? My panic grew. “Alex, get dressed,” I ordered.
The woman on the bed stirred, stroking Alex’s leg. “Well, at least there was no assault,” I thought. But still, we needed to leave. Alex just stood there, seemingly oblivious. “Hey, man, if you’re not dressed in 10 seconds, I’ll knock you out!” I yelled like a drill sergeant.
That did the trick. Alex got up. Meanwhile, the Peruvian woman began fuming as she noticed her clothes scattered across the floor and a toppled shelf. “You’re wearing my ex’s shorts, and they’re staying here!” she barked.
The redhead on the bed didn’t seem to care, running her hand further up Alex’s leg. “We’re leaving!” I shouted. Alex hesitated but finally obeyed.
In the cab, Alex told me what happened. His new friend, a recently divorced Russian woman visiting from L.A., had initiated everything. When he couldn’t find a condom I’d given him, they searched the apartment. No luck. As he tried to back out, she had other plans. She climbed on top and took control.
“Should I believe that?” Whatever, I’ll probably never know the full truth. “What?” I ask, shocked. “You had unprotected sex?”
“Yes, damn it, I did. I had no choice,” he replies.
“Man, have you ever heard of AIDS or STDs? We’re in New York!”
“Yeah, I know, damn it. And the way she went at it… she was a real nympho. I’m worried,” Alex stammers nervously. Rightly so, but maybe she just had a lot of pent-up energy. “It’s too late now anyway. Calm down. Just get tested in six weeks when you’re back home. Let’s hope nothing happened,” I try to reassure him.
After just two hours of sleep, my alarm rings. I have a business meeting, and I look terrible. Eye drops and several cups of coffee don’t help much. After the meeting, I head, exhausted, to my office and meet my Cuban graphic designer friends. They look at me with pity and ask about my evening. When I tell them the story, they burst out laughing and shout in unison, “Raw Dog!”
“What?” I ask.
“It’s a term in hip-hop for guys who screw without condoms on principle,” Lazaro explains, mimicking the street slang of a Bronx hoodlum.
That afternoon, I manage to catch a few more hours of sleep. Later, I wake up Alex to invite him to dinner and drinks. He shuts me down. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough of New York nightlife. I just want to go home and get that test done. I’m really worried.”
Yeah, I think to myself, it’ll probably be fine. Nothing you can do about it now. Then I explain to him what “Raw Dog” means and let him know that from now on, it’ll be his nickname. “You’ve earned it, fair and square. And I’ll make sure all our friends hear this story,” I warn him. He promises me, in return, never to leave the house without condoms again.
Photo by Anders Jildén on Unsplash
