These are the words that were uttered to me by one god-like model boy at the Gotham Magazine holiday party last night. In accordance with my new rule that I will no longer run away from attractive men and will look them in the eye, speak to them, and (if I’m lucky) touch them, I engaged in a dance with a beautifully-toothed, silky-maned hottie. He, picture-perfect; and I, five drinks into the night, made a curious pair on the dance floor. He was a rather uninspiring dancer, so I spiced things up by running my hands all over his waistline and twisting his white Polo turtleneck sweater into knots. “Interesting choice, your white sweater,” I said to him. No stranger to compliments, he smiled sexily, with perfect white teeth to match his perfect white sweater, and said, “Do you like it?”

Ever the temptress, I replied with, “No. I’m actually surprised no one has spilled anything on it yet.” Speaking from experience, I had earlier spilled a martini down my shirt while attempting a back bend.

Still, my remark did not drive my young Adonis away. I did however see my friend Manny trying to make an escape, so I screamed across the dance floor for him to return. The last words he had spoken to me were, “You’re getting a bit aggressive with that boy. You might want to back off a bit.”

I did not heed Manny’s advice. Instead I plucked the champagne glass out of Adonis’s right hand (his left hand clutched a martini) and drew it to his lips, although not in the manner of one who is looking to seduce, but rather in the manner of one who is putting out a small grease fire. I poured the remaining bubbly down his throat, and was surprised when he scampered off to the nearby bar to replenish it. I thought I was doing him a favor, as he had been double-fisting throughout the duration of our dance and I was hoping to free up a hand, should he choose to reciprocate the manhandling. In response to his abrupt exodus from the dance floor, I followed him to the bar and apologized for the champagne incident, asking if it had belonged to someone else.

With a pouty, petulant, perfect-periodontic face, he whined, “It’s MINE. And you've ruined it!”

There wasn’t much I could do at that point. So I grabbed Manny, who had loyally stayed close by, and we laughed about the incident while we danced for the next couple of songs. Manny was a much more interesting dance partner anyway – on the two occasions that he fell down, he played it off as if it were part of the performance.

For the remainder of the night, whenever there was a lull in conversation I would explode with, “It’s MINE. And you've ruined it!” We didn't see Adonis again, but he nevertheless kept us entertained.

Models can be such babies sometimes. Sheesh.