Upon our return, we can see that about half of Dylan’s lame older coworkers — older only in the sense that they are in their late 30s to middle 40s — have left. The rest have ventured across the aisle for seats at the bar, presumably as an act of largesse, to free up their table for this other huge, ravenous party. While Aaron joins Joe, Pete, and Phil in our corner table, to regroup and dream up his next master plan, I observe that Dylan is sitting just to the left of Sally, and that furthermore the seat to his left is unoccupied, which seems like an open invitation for me to claim it.
Her hands wrapped around an intimidating goblet of dark red wine, Sally crinkles her nose and giggles continually at virtually everything Dylan’s saying. It’s not a feigned ingratiation tactic, either, as she has genuinely always found him completely hilarious. Which he is. But also because her fiancé, David, seated on her other side, chats loudly to some people in the opposite direction, and therefore she has limited options right now. As far as her attributes, she’s a slender, short, decent looking woman for her age, if not quite anybody we would chase after.
“Too funny,” she keeps adding, after every tittering fit, shaking her head as she does. This merely the first half of her patented stock phrase, so prevalent that I know what she’s going to say next. “That is too, too funny…”
As for me, as they have chosen what we might call the inner conversational lane here at the bar, about three quarters of the way facing one another from their stools, this affords plenty of room in the outer one. I prop one elbow on the bar’s slick, shiny surface and, after a hearty “hey man!” of encouragement from Dylan, a warm hello from Sally, join them in this convivial discussion. This hearty greeting a long, magical wand, warding off any misgivings that I’m some sort of conversational ghoul, floating about the premises and sucking the life from all, belonging nowhere.
Cut loose once again out here in Singleland, this sense of mostly belonging, feeling slightly less awkward by the day if not the minute, lurches forward in fits, occasionally stumbling backward as well. Our stint at this sport bar chain has moved mostly in the right direction, albeit with a shambling diagonal motion, and even straightens out a little the longer I stand here with Sally and Dylan. I’m unexpectedly falling into a familiar old groove again, with the ready wisecracks rolling off the tongue. Dylan and I expertly feed off one another’s lines like some longstanding comedy duo, which I suppose is somewhat true. Yet during one brief lull in our conversation, the latest dynamic high point has led Sally to a memorable observation, a rare comment that is as encouraging as it is deflating.
“Oh man,” Sally says between chortling fits, “I’ll bet you two are ladykillers, aren’t you! You’re good looking, you’re smart, you’re hilarious…”
Dylan peers over at me, smirking, but otherwise wearing a quizzical expression. “No, I’d say it hasn’t really been like that, wouldn’t you?”
I nod in reluctant concurrence.
Of course, it’s no mystery to us what works. On the road to ladykiller land, as it were. The problem is we’re too inconsistent to pull a lot of this off, too lazy. With our strange senses of humor, our inclinations toward the bizarre. Beyond that we have no skeletons hanging out of sight, which is fortunate, because this is all complicated enough already. And so while interspersed with bouts of concerted normality, the predominant uneven patches color our days in wider, jagged streaks — intentionally bad haircuts, questionable facial hair decisions, outrageous fashion debacles, strange personality experiments. Instead of playing it straight and just acting normal, we’re always trying to pull the pieces apart, to figure out how these elements interact. Not just with women, but social interaction in general.
But again, it’s no mystery to us what works. Or at least, what used to work, and what most guys seemingly continue to try, a dead horse they can’t stop whipping. Because the other side of this is, though blindly following the respectable masses never suited us, we’re beginning to suspect it’s no longer the ideal mode of operation for anyone. If ever it was.
We have always known that if we visit the salon and have them sculpt our hair down to an impeccable t-square aligned crew cut, that if we throw on our very best shiny collared shirt — properly washed and ironed of course — that if we keep the scathing wisecracks and all too intrusive insights down to a dull roar, concentrating instead upon officially sanctioned subjects like jobs and school and babies, maintain impeccably clean and trimmed fingernails, our shoes devoid of mud, khaki slacks or at the very least hundred dollar jeans absent any holes, or chafing at the cuff, if we limit our eyewear to either contacts or the most unobtrusive glasses a vision plan can buy, if we show up at the club in the best vehicle between us (provided it is washed, trash free, and swept) — then somehow we’re suddenly magically respectable, and desirable.
But what if this were no longer true? Or more specifically to us and many others, what if it’s just a colossal waste for everyone if attempting to pull off that which is not truly you, even if considered the essential bare minimum by most normal folk? I mean, when you’re cracking up while worming your way through this litany of preparations, knowing it a complete crock, it becomes impossible to take any who fall for it seriously. We know that almost none of this would be necessary whatsoever were we insanely loaded. Or for that matter, even just six inches taller. Actually, when you consider the height issue in depth, it seems an even more idiotic societal fixation.
Not that this is anything we dwell upon. Only recently has it even occurred to me this may represent an important factor. A big deal in high school maybe, but something I’d considered not once in the years since. Everyone I mention it to shrugs off the notion, but I sense more of a blind eye is at play here than true attitudinal evolution. There’s no denying these chicks, and for that matter other males, respect the taller of stature just a wee bit more. I walk around tightlipped and it’s an occasion to discuss how shy I am; my six foot four counterpart, on the other hand, rides the same demeanor to a room full of hushed awe, whisperings of how moody and intimidating he is. Yet at the other end of the spectrum, in our equally common vocal outbursts, the best summation we’ll manage is a flippant smartass tag. Whereas our tall friend, he’s just ballsy. Hearty, respect laden guffaws and back slaps all around. True, I have known towering figures who couldn’t get laid to save their lives, but both of those guys had serious acne problems.
Okay, but that’s no major deal, we readily work around it. Girls taller than us are possibly harder to snare, but there’s still a mighty bumper crop below. And we’ve proven to ourselves we can score with them whenever the spirit to conform moves us. Or I was feeling this way, anyhow, on top of my game, up through the Jenna era. She’s an attractive, in demand female, fighting off the guys before I landed her and surely doing the same again now — so even if that went south, it’s still a feather in the proverbial cap. Now, who knows. I’m sure I will figure it out again, but the early going is rocky. Particularly with this aforementioned lack of patience for, and historically little success in, doing things the quote unquote “normal” way, ever, no matter the topic.
These thoughts consume us as we splinter apart to our respective next destinations. Dylan’s coworkers have uniformly, as expected, all gone home upon leaving the restaurant, while the ever cagey Aaron, though admitting he would likely see us over at Jumpers, our collective current favorite dance club, insisted upon hopping into his sleek new sports car alone, accepting no passengers. The impression I’ve received is that he will possibly hit Jumpers at some point, but has a couple other potential better options in mind, which he wishes to check out first.
This means, however, that the remaining five of us must cram into my exceedingly more downtrodden, early model sports car, bound for Joe’s place across town. Joe and Phil both drove here, but have already consumed enough alcohol to reconsider climbing behind the wheel again. And it’s not even ten p.m.
If there’s one silver lining surrounding this leg of the voyage, it’s that upon arrival at Joe’s, he plans on climbing in with his girlfriend, Angel, who will then transport them to the next bar. Meaning that the trio crammed into my backseat can breathe a little easier. Even under the best of circumstances, Dylan always feels like vomiting if unable to ride up front, so he claims the relative luxury of the shotgun seat, as I’ve got the steering wheel all but shoved against my ribcage. Creating more legroom, while we debate the most recent slate of developments as would some TV pundit panel.
The latest topic concerns Sally’s compliment, if it holds water and what that might mean. Sure, I have a legitimate rustiness excuse right now, and for my often perplexing behavior. And yet whatever their current situation, I would say most of this applies to my comrades here too. I’ve slept with a couple girls that I would consider knockouts, but then at the other extreme have gone through a couple baffling periods where I couldn’t seem to get laid to save my ass. Otherwise mostly just treaded water somewhere between the two, sometimes having a steady girlfriend, sometimes not; managing to hook up regularly either way, with pretty much all the women at least halfway decent looking or maybe a little better. None of which really computes, unless it’s an epidemic for men in general — except I have known guys with far fewer attributes who have done better. This can only mean that, aside from sabotaging ourselves in the known ways, the just plain weird behavior we have no intention of shaking, it’s otherwise most likely a confidence issue.
“I think part of the problem might be that…even though all of us have slept with some hotties here and there,” I suggest, “we don’t think of ourselves as the types of guys who land the hotties.”
“I think you’re right,” Pete Ravage concurs from the backseat.
Dylan, meanwhile, cackles and says, “okay, I’m just wondering which ones were my hotties.” Self-deprecating or not, though, he has had his fair share of them, too, and I know he’s aware of it.
“No, fuck that, dude,” Phil Laswell, our resident hard rocker type character, challenges, “I’ve got plenty of confidence. I’ll talk to anyone, man, I don’t give a fuck.”
“Well I’ll talk to anyone, too,” I reply, “I’m just saying. It’s a mindset.”
“My thing is,” Joe interjects, “I like to get about, mmm…two sheets to the wind before I head out on the town. Then it’s like everything just rolls of my tongue.”
“No, fuck that, too, man, I don’t need any liquid courage, either,” Phil retorts.
“Well no, I’m not saying I need liquid courage,” Joe defends, “but see, for some reason, girls seem to like it when you don’t give a fuuuuuuck about anything — and it usually takes me about four or five beers before I feel that way. Then I’m in the zone.”
He concludes this sentiment with a laugh, just as we’re pulling onto the short, residential, somewhat suburban street he now calls home. In so doing, I spot Angel’s bright eyesore of a vehicle, the small yet stylish, brand new banana yellow two door she recently acquired. All one can say is the tips must be quite solid at the club where Angel works — for yes, it’s true, Joe’s girlfriend is a stripper.
Referring to her as girlfriend seems like a stretch at times, though this is the term they always bandy about. Still, even though enduring a couple rough patches, they have hung in there together for a year and a half, and to our knowledge Joe hasn’t strayed outside the relationship any during the times they were dating. It’s just that he appears perpetually on the prowl for an upgrade, even so, and we get the feeling he’d permanently dump her in a heartbeat if the right candidate came along. Though denying this is true, as he is wont to do.
The whole reason Joe is staying here now, with some barely known, friend of a friend acquaintance named Justin, has to do with one of his and Angel’s brief breakups. They were sharing an apartment together, for half a year or so, after Joe moved out as my roommate and I brought Jenna in. Except Joe and Angel’s living arrangement went sour before the lease was even up, a few months ago, prompting the current scenario, and Angel’s new apartment clear out on the east side. Meanwhile, whatever this Justin character does, some kind of downtown job in banking, he must pull in mighty decent coin. For this is an impressive house he has, near the river, in one of the tonier districts our fair city has to offer. Renting one upstairs bedroom, Joe barely sees the guy, and gets to enjoy all the amenities at a fraction of the price.
As for Angel, to her credit, unlike most such strippers we run into, she’s not a druggie and she’s not a whore. There is actually something almost innocent and childlike about her underneath it all. Or rather, I guess it’s more accurately childish, if describing her nearly unwavering demeanor. She has no personality whatsoever, except on the occasions she is pouting. I have experienced exactly one instance that would qualify as an actual conversation with her, in all this time, which is one more than the rest of the guys have enjoyed. I would say that it’s hard to understand what Joe sees in her, unless you unclothe that sentence down to its bare skin, and examine it at face value: no, it’s quite clear what Joe sees in her. That is the entirety of the attraction, what he sees.
Some of us can even vouch for the attributes firsthand. Though we haven’t seen her perform, Joe and Angel recently entertained this big idea for making a lot of money, by entering her into these nudie mag competitions. Miss Hometown USA and the like. One day Dylan and I were hanging out over here with Joe, when he whipped out this stack of Polaroids they’d taken, handed them over to us to thumb through. These ran the gamut on the naughtiness scale, from Angel prancing around in lingerie, up through full frontal, sprawled out nudity.
“Holy Moly!” Dylan exclaimed at one point, right around the time he glimpsed the first such graphic photo.
She’s a tall brunette, full figured enough to classify as smoking hot. Long, wavy hair and huge tits, blue eyed, flawlessly complected, her porcelain doll features framing those swollen, pouty lips. And as I glance over Dylan’s shoulder without handling the photos myself, nothing whatsoever is left to the imagination in these, as she prances around her bedroom and especially upon the mattress.
“Yeah,” Joe beams, clearly proud, that this is the chick he’s banging and soon the whole world might view her, “but see, what we’ve noticed is, if you really look into it, the girls that actually win are almost never fully nude. They leave something to the imagination, you know? So that’s what we plan on doing: we’re gonna submit a picture that shows her tits, but she leaves her panties on.”
And this is what they do, although the expected financial windfalls aren’t exactly forthcoming. The pictures still make the cut in numerous magazines, of course, which we could theoretically purchase if we really cared that much. As far as I’m concerned, though, I’ve already seen the goods on these Polaroids, and really don’t need a souvenir. Angel has one hell of a body but is missing some essential ingredients upstairs. Joe never really considered her anything more than someone to screw, yet has nonetheless managed to string her along all this time. A real sweet girl, he always tells us, but no one to settle down with, particularly not after their cohabitation experiment went awry. Not that any of this matters.
In other news: I’m digging this service by Books2Read that just gives you one universal link for your books. So if for example you’re interested in picking up my latest novel, Well-Behaved Monsters, I don’t have to worry about steering readers to any specific store. They can just click here and choose the destination of their choice:
https://books2read.com/wellbehavedmonsters
It’s a pretty sweet service and completely free. So for you authors out there, you might want to look into it. Readers, I would definitely encourage you to click on my link and check this out as well!
Thanks and have a great week!
