April 21st, 2005

Lately I’ve been editing my third UNpublished novel, The Sender, every night after work.  I can’t really categorize my recent obsession as “editing” however, since I’m basically rewriting the whole god damn thing.  I penned the first draft about three years ago, and was so proud of it at the time, I figured I’d be up for the Pulitzer Prize shortly thereafter.  Now though, it reads like corny dog shit to me, so I’m forced to improve on what I previously considered perfection. 

Regardless, I haven’t had much time to work on the website, and since my little internet endeavor has passed the 30,000 hits mark as of late, I figured it was high time I offered something new.  This is gonna be a hodgepodge of random “going out” experiences, so please excuse the lack of coherency. 

Drunken phone calls from various ex-girlfriends aside, I haven’t been doing much in the “love” department.  I’ve been working, writing, and training a hell of a lot more than I’ve been going out, so the opportunity for vaginal conquest has been next to zero.  This doesn’t mean that I haven’t been having fun, however, because every once in a while, my best friend Dani tempts me away from the computer.

Dani is a striking Jewish woman from New York City that I’ve know for about five years, (ever since I lived in what was ostensibly the “Real World” house in Fairview North Carolina with six other roommates).  Blessed with an angel’s face and the most beautiful mane of shiny black hair I’ve ever seen, (no shit, people comment on her hair all the time… and her boobs, come to think of it), Dani is the coolest chick in existence.  She steals the show when we go out, bar patrons and employees alike entranced by her genuine wit and infectious laughter.  Though you might find this hard to believe, I’m often characterized as “Dani’s Friend” when we’re together, a term I consider insulting since I’m the baddest motherfucker that ever lived.

Ah, what’re ya gonna do?  People seem to prefer a super likable chick that will make you laugh, than a super likable guy that will make you laugh… before punching you in the testicles for no reason and vomiting on your shoes.

Go figure.

Anyway, Dani and I rendezvoused a few weeks ago for drinks at our favorite Asheville hangout… of which I don’t know the name.  It’s either Flying Frog or The New French Bar.  I think it’s the latter, but I can’t be sure because the management keeps switching.  What’s wrong with these douches?  If an establishment isn’t successful, and it goes under, what does “new management” think they’re gonna do?  As far as I’m concerned, it’s the same tavern/restaurant I discovered three restructurings ago, and the main reason we go there, is because nobody else does. 

Here’s a tip for ya… BE HAPPY WITH WHAT YOU ARE!!!  I used to go to Tressa’s all the time, but then they tried to “jazz things up”, and now I wouldn’t step foot in that club if my dick was on fire and they were the only place with a garden hose. 

Granted, I like the owners, Terry & Tressa, but it’s so loud in there nowadays that you can’t possibly hold a conversation.  I’m sure guys and girls still “hook up” in that place, but they must be doing it via sign language because the 400,000 decibel speaker volume insures auditory damage just by going to their website.  

Of course, another part of it is that Dani and I no longer get treated like royalty by the Tressa’s staff, which was par for the course when Kyle was working the door a year ago.  I understand the premise of this, but not the actuality.  I mean, statistically speaking, I’m actually cooler NOW than I was back then, so, wouldn’t they be kissing my ass even more?!?

Apparently not, and I don’t like that, so Dani and I don’t go there anymore.

Regardless, we sitting at a table in our new hangout a couple of weeks ago- Dani with her snooty red wine, and I with my double bourbon and diet coke- when we started reminiscing about the early days of our friendship.  Back when we lived in the Fairview house, our crew was much bigger, and one of our favorite things to do was to go to Scandals.  As it has appeared in other stories, I need not elaborate on Scandals except to say that it is Asheville’s biggest swankiest gay dance club.  The sheer amount of flaming homosexuality in that place is mind-boggling to most straight people, which is why it’s so fun to go there and fuck with people, (not violently, mind you, just in general).

It was during a conversation about that very thing, (and after my eighth drink), that Dani looks at me slyly and says, “Wanna go?”

“Yeah right,” I chuckled, taking a sip of delicious brown liquor only to see that Dani was still staring at me.  “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m serious,” she goaded, “Let’s go!  Right now!  What- are ya scared, little fella?  Ya gonna do poopie in your pantsies?  You afraid you’ll catch The Gay?”

OH NO SHE DI ‘INT!!!

“I’ll do it,” I advised, not truly believing that she was serious, but vaguely excited by the prospect.

Ten minutes later, I was walking into the club.

The huge smoky room was not yet packed, but those who were there boasted ensembles of leather and lace and sequins.  From the unseen speakers, dull thumping dance music shook my internal organs to their cellular core, and I had to clinch my ass cheeks together to keep from shitting myself.  Above, disco balls and laser lights bathed the scene in rapid pulses of purple and blue, as giant drag queens swayed together in groups on this semi-balcony or that.   

“Holy fucking shit…” I breathed, “Look at all the assmasters…”

“Keep it down,” Dani warned, immediately ushering me towards the bar. 

You see, I’d recently shaved my head courtesy of Kyle’s barber clippers, (which he later informed me are used to landscape his scrotum), so with my perpetual chin stubble and bulky hooded sweat shirt, I’m sure I looked like the kind of guy that would fist a would-be suitor without thinking twice about it, (that’s FACE fist, by the way.  Not ASS fist). 

Notice how I used “fist” as a verb?  Yeah, I’m awesome.

After getting a couple of drinks, Dani and I retired to one of the upraised semi-balconies, (the main dance floor is surrounded by such), to grab a table and watch the decadence unfold. 

No sooner than we sat down, a pealing, high-pitched voice squealed my name.

“Miiiike!!!  What’re you doing here?!?”

It was Chris McSweatyPits, a squirrelly blond haired gay guy I used to work with at Client Logic.  The name I’m giving him is very, very fitting, since I don’t think I’ve ever seen him dry.  He’s one of those dudes that has no problem dancing by himself, and given the fact that he dances like he’s having a seizure, his clothes are always soaking wet with perspiration. 

I’m fairly certain he was going to try and give me a hug, but a grim frown and subtle lift of my left eyebrow made him realize it was not the most intelligent course of action.

Now, I have no problem with homosexuals in general, but I don’t really like Chris because he’s got a big fucking mouth.

Early in my five year career at Client Logic, I dated a psychopathic bitch named Diana Snakehead, and after I broke up with her, she tried to get even by spreading all kinds of rumors about me. 

“Mike cheated all the time… Mike was lousy in bed… Mike was once a priest who got excommunicated from the Catholic Church for organizing Naked Youth Group…” 

Ya know, the usual. 

Ah, but the schizophrenic exuberance of her verbal attacks, (which lasted for MONTHS), dissolved the last of her credibility with Human Resources, and she eventually got fired.  Or maybe she quit because nobody liked her.  I can’t remember.

Nevertheless, Chris took it upon himself to befriend Diana after I gave her the old heave ho, (pardon the pun), and thus augmented said rumors with supposedly firsthand knowledge.  

I only discovered this months later, when I was lying in bed with another coworker named Julie who, after sex, leaned over and whispered, “So, you CAN get off without being choked.”

I promptly removed the red silken scarf from my neck and told her it was a lie.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, Scandals.

Having decided to fuck with Chris, I invited him to join Dani and me at the table, then inventing an intricate series of fabrications when he asked what I was doing now.

(Keep in mind, I up and quit Client Logic back in October.)

“Ah, well,” I sighed, feigning reminiscent grief, “It was tough there for a while.  Ya know, being unemployed?  But back in January I caught a break and hooked up with this bounty hunter group based in Johnson City Tennessee.”

“Bounty hunters?” Chris cooed with his prominent lisp, “Ooooo!  That sounds dangerous!”

“Not really.  We hunt down children.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, we use a web service to monitor the country for new Amber Alerts, and as soon as we’ve got a fish, we track ‘em down for the reward.”

“You so silly!  I never heard of a bunch of guys rescuing missing kids.”

“That’s because we don’t rescue ‘em.  The payday’s the same either way, dead or alive, so we usually snuff the little bastards out.  Think about it, would YOU wanna drive cross country in a van with a six year old whining nonstop?  Mr. Descado, I’m hungry…  Mr. Descado, I need to go to the bathroom…  Mr. Descado, I need my insulin…  No thanks!  We tried it that way the first two or three times, but then it just got too annoying, so now we finish ‘em off before we go to the police.  That’s better, really, because it makes a stronger case against the abductors.”

Now, anybody with half a brain would’ve known that I was bullshitting, but Chris actually recoiled in horror, no doubt thanks to my Academy Award Winning performance.

“No, no!” I pleaded, “It’s not like that!  We chloroform ‘em first.  They don’t feel a thing.”

“Oh look,” Chris stammered, “My friends just got here.  I’m should really go over and say hi.”

He tried to get up, but I threw a heavy arm around his shoulder and manhandled him back to his seat.

“Aw maaaan, don’t go yet!  You haven’t even met my wife!”

Chris’s frightened watery gaze shifted over to Dani, who was sitting nearby.  Given the lighting in the club, and the blackness of her hair and clothing, she must’ve been virtually invisible, ‘cause it was the first time I saw Chris look at her.

“You’re married?”

“Kinda.  She’s a mail order bride I got from Kazakhstan.  Don’t speak much English, but that’s cool too.  Watch this…”  Dragging Chris with me, I leaned over the table and stared right at Dani’s breasts.  “DAMN YOUR BOOBS ARE BIG!!!”

Only half going along with my continuing amusement, Dani flashed me her patented, ‘you’re an idiot’ smirk, but said nothing.   

“Awesome, huh?” I prodded Chris by tightening the grip around his neck.

“She’s very pretty.  Uh, she has fabulous hair.”

“Yup!” I declared, letting him go and leaning back in my chair, “Just another day in Siberia.  Lucky I speak Russian…  Kravick sta tacivica gruit Chris McSweatyPits de barracks ass poundum,” I babbled, then glaring over when Chris didn’t respond, “FUCK, man!  I just introduced you!  Aren’t cha gonna shake her hand?!?”

“Nice to meet you,” Chris said, quickly shaking the first two fingers of Dani’s right hand before using his newfound freedom to bolt.  “Nice to see ya again, Mike!” He called up from the dance floor, “Don’t drink too much now!” he added somewhat flirtily.  And then he was gone.

I PISSED myself laughing, Dani punching me in the arm before leaning in to ask where I knew “that guy” from.  I told her the whole Chris/Diana/Client Logic saga in the minutes that followed, and even though I’d been a total ass, she agreed that the rectum seeking gossipmonger had it coming.

“Just to clarify,” Dani later asked with deadpan seriousness, “You don’t REALLY like to be choked when you’re having sex, right?”

***

The next time Dani and I went out, we were slated to again frequent our normal hangout- only, the phone rang as I was getting ready to walk out the door.

“Hello?”

“COUSIN MIIIKE!!!” a female voice slurred from the receiver, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”

It was Shannon, my cousin Marty’s wife.  I’m sure I’ve mentioned Marty in other stories, but an update is probably warranted.  Big and strong and smart as shit, Marty is a New York City educated lawyer who practiced in Memphis for several years before recently moving to the western end of Tennessee to be close to me… because I rule.

Actually, Marty moved because of a job offer from a prominent law firm, but I’m sure the locale’s proximity to Asheville had something to do with it… because I rule.

To give you a visual, Marty looks like an assbeating version of John Edwards: the guy that almost ran for president last year.  When Marty smiles, and flashes a thumbs up, he’s a dead ringer.  His wife Shannon is a comely intelligent blond whose deadpan lack of bullshit makes you respect her immediately.

Cool people.  In short, I’d love the DICK outta both of ‘em even if they weren’t family.  As such, I had no problem changing my plans for the night when they told me they were in town… along with Shannon’s mother.

* ring * ring *

“Hello?”

“Dani!  Hey, this is Mike!”

“Duh…  I’m almost at your house.  Five minutes, tops.”

“Change of plan.”

“You can’t go out?”

“Naw, I can still go out, but we need to stop by Skullys before we hit The Flying Frog.”

Skullys is this hole-in-the-wall bar where Marty, Shannon, and I usually hang out.  In the past, we’ve always met there because there’s not a lot of business, and we like to catch up.  There’s also a hot bartendress that I’ve been hitting on for the last three months.  For the exact same reason, (meaning, Marty and Shannon can find it), I’d suggested Skullys for our rendezvous.

Half an hour later, Dani and I were huddled around a table with Marty, Shannon, AND SHANNON’S MOTHER!!!

Thought I was kidding about that part, didn’t ya?  I wasn’t. 

Shannon’s sixty year old matriarch was there… and intoxicated… and verbally ecstatic about seeing me again in person.  She met me once before three years earlier at Marty and Shannon’s wedding, but she’d only heard the stories of my defilement of two female wedding attendees (one of them a bridesmaid) after the fact, and she wanted to converse with the flesh and blood embodiment of masculine evil.

The five of us went back and forth with stories from my and Marty’s youth, some of them collegiate escapades that are posted on this site.  The more we talked, the more Shannon’s mother loved me, though not in the traditional way.  It was more of a, “You’re funny, but GOD DAMN I’m glad my daughter married the good cousin,” kinda thing.  I have that effect on older woman.  They seem to find me charming, but only as long as their offspring aren’t sharing naughty time.

Before I get to the really surreal part of this night, I’d like to mention a funny little tidbit.  After an hour or so of family drinking, my old roommate Phil Lomac showed, (along with his wife Jodi), and the debauchery was joined.  At one point, Phil said something sarcastic to tease me, and I immediately unleashed with a round kick to his head.  Obviously, I stopped the kick just short of touching him, and whipped it back down, but Marty was amazed.

“Holy Penis!  Do that again, Mike!  Do that again!”

Not sure if I could, indeed, do that again, I declined.  You see, when I’m drunk, and not really trying to show off, I can do some pretty amazing shit.  But when I’m drunk, and actually TRYING, I usually fall flat on my ass, or accidentally land- the latter having disastrous consequences.  As such, I tend to restrain myself to only one feat of martial badassedness per night.

Nevertheless, this got Marty on the subject of fighting, which eventually led to me breaking my own rules of social etiquette by intentionally fucking with a couple of people that didn’t disserve it.

We were all at a table at the now crowded bar, and I noticed a pair of middle-aged preppy guys sitting about ten feet away at the bar proper.  They were drinking Samuel Adams beer, which reminded me of the funny-as-hell Dave Chappelle skit about Samuel Jackson beer.  It might take some searching, but you can probably find the clip here:

www.comedycentral.com

“Drunk Mike” was already making way for “Satan Mike”, so you can probably guess what happened next.

“Watch this,” I told Marty, then stomping up to the two guys, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders, and screaming, “HOW’S IT TASTE, MOTHERFUCKERS?!?”

One of ‘em spit beer on the bar, the other looking back at me like I’d just stuck my finger in his ass.

“HUH?!?” I continued, “HUH?!?”

“We didn’t do anything to you,” the first guy wailed, “Leave us alone.”

I immediately felt like an asshole.

“Naw, naw, naw!” I pleaded, patting them both on the back and then turning to straighten the speaker’s shirt, “I was only kidding, you guys!  You’ve never seen the Dave Chappelle show?”

They shook their heads, and I knew then that I was about to be in a very precarious situation.  The second guy was now rallying his courage, and though I outweighed him by about thirty pounds, it was obvious he was pissed.

“You’re a real jerk, man,” he informed me, “I mean, what kind of a person comes up to two total strangers and starts yelling profanity?”

“I, uh, um…”

DANI TO THE RESCUE!!!

“He’s just drunk,” she said, literally appearing from nowhere to pull me back, “And he thought you two were a couple of guys we knew back in college.”

(It goes without saying that Dani and I did NOT go to college together.)

Angry Preppy shook his head in disgust.

“I hate people like you,” he said, “You think you can do whatever you want?!?”

“You’ve got me all wrong,” I insisted, a little more forcefully, “I really WAS kidding!  I wasn’t trying to start trouble.  I just suck at social interaction.  I’m actually a pacifist.”

“No you’re not,” growled Angry Preppy, jerking his head towards the table where Marty, Phil, Jodi, Shannon and Shannon’s mother were still sitting, “I saw you kick at that tall guy with the blond hair.  Is he another college friend of yours, or are you just a bully to everybody you meet?”

Wow.  What a dead on tongue-lashing; one made all the worse because he wasn’t trying to confront me physically.  No, Angry Preppy was merely pointing out what an unabashed DICK I am, and rightfully so.

Suddenly, I felt my shoulders slump, my penis shrinking, and I became the little Mikey Descado of kindergarten, the shy chubby kid that always got picked last in Dodge Ball.

“I’m sorry,” I said contritely, moving away from Dani to clap the both of ‘em on respective shoulders, “You’re totally right, and I’d like to buy the next round.  What’re ya’ll drinking?  Samuel Adams, yeah?”

Angry Preppy shrugged my hand away and turned his back, his friend doing the same.

“Just get away from us, man.  We don’t want anything from you.”

“MA… THUR… FUC-” I began, but Dani manhandled me away and ushered me back to my own table. 

Everyone was giggling and shaking their heads, Marty facedown on the table with his forehead buried in his crossed forearms, his hunched shoulders quivering.  For a second, I thought he was an undiagnosed epileptic.

A long gasping inhale, and then Marty let loose with a full blown belly laugh.

“Bah HAHAHAHAHA!!!  How’s it taste, motherfuckers?!?  Ah HAHAHAAA!!!!  Jesus Christ!!!”  * gasp * “That was the funniest shit I’ve ever seen!!!” * wheeze * “You’re crazy, Mike!  CRAAAZY!!!”

Having been too faraway to hear the whole of the exchange, Marty- and the rest of my entourage- were under the mistaken assumption that I’d “punked” the two preppies, and since Dani was and is too awesome to tell them what really happened, well…

I’m sure they’ll read this and know the truth, but the perceived outcome of my recklessness elevated me to the status of “Uncontrollable Wildman without Fear.”

Story of my life, boys and girls…

***

I wrote up the above incident to illustrate how much of an asshole I can be.  Not intentionally, mind you, because I always do the things I do in jest.  But that particular disaster made me rethink my idea of “fun”, and I’ve since taken my drunken antics down a notch. 

***

ANYWAY, Phil and Jodi eventually disappeared, leaving me, Marty, Dani, Shannon and Shannon’s mother to get inhumanly hammered.  Given the self-imposed cockblock I’d orchestrated by my encounter with the preppies, the hot bartendress I’m always hitting on wanted nothing to do with me, and it was time for a new drinking establishment.

After some brainstorming, the idea of my conservative cousin taking his no-nonsense wife and shellacked mother-in-law to a gay bar struck a cord with Dani and I, and we decided to show them the wonders of Scandals.  At that point, our non-power-drinking compatriots were too blazed to think it a bad idea, and we left Skullys in mass, the hot bartendress flashing me a smile as I stumbled out the front door.

Hear me now and believe me later, that bartendress WILL be mine!  Oh yes, she WILL be mine…

Scandals was packed that night, gyrating couples pumping each other in pornographic displays of “over-the-clothes” copulation.  The laser lights were on, the music was bumping, and they even had a smoke machine that spewed fog out onto the dance floor every so often.  After watching safely from the wings, Shannon’s mother suggested that we dance, (probably), and we made our way through the gauntlet of thrusting pelvises. 

Now, I can “get down”, as can Marty; our public school education in ethnically diverse Mississippi having imparted the gift of jiggy.  Dani and Shannon are good dancers too, but SHANNON’S MOM blew us all away!!!  Though slight in stature, she was jerking this way and that, a perpetual smile on her face as she knocked people all over the dance floor.  Being old school, (literally), she had moves that are totally foreign to my generation.  I think I started calling her “Crazy Legs” after she unleashed a vintage Charleston Breakdance medley on a group of flaming gay guys dancing nearby.

“YOU GO GIRL!!!” one dude cheered, prompting Crazy Legs to spin around a little too quickly and heel him in the scrotum. 

Homosexuals were dropping left and right within Shannon’s Mom’s “circle of destruction”; her flailing elbows a force more deadly than anything I can personally muster.  It was only when we heard an approaching ambulance siren, that we decided to get her out of there.

Dozens lay mystified or wounded in her wake, and I have no doubt that the name “Crazy Legs” will be whispered with reverence in that place for decades to come.

We all went back to my place, downing gratuitous drinks without restraint before Dani informed me that it was time for her to go home, (undoubtedly because Marty, Shannon, and Shannon’s Mom had passed out). 

I slept that night without dreams, only to awake the next morning to find my living room strewn with motionless bodies.  Shannon’s Mom was on the couch, Shannon herself draped across Marty on the floor, which caused me a second’s pause.

“Oh crap…  Did I KILL them?!?”

Thankfully, they were all alive, and I spent the next half an hour rousing them from alcohol poisoning.  Much to my relief, Marty wanted to make a quick exit to get some breakfast, (an invitation I declined), and he promptly gathered his wife and mother-in-law to leave.  Why was this “much to my relief”?  Well, that’s because Crazy Legs was no longer Crazy Legs.  In the light of a sober morning, she seemed like a regular southern matriarch: her smile sheepish rather than exultant, her elbows safely by her sides.  I actually felt guilty, or perhaps ashamed, as if I’d somehow taken advantage of her.  Ah, but her trailing comment made me realize that I was not the villain.

“Goodbye, Michael,” she said, “Thanks for showing an old gal a good time.”

I know what you’re thinking, so let me clear that up right now.  NO, I did not sleep with her.

“No problem, Mrs. Shannon’s Mom,” I replied, “See ya next time…”

***

Since I’m on a roll here with the Scandals theme, lemme’ finish with the last time I went there… an event that left its mark on my forehead.  As in the first story, Dani prodded me to return to Scandals after many drinks at The New French Bar, and we had a GREAT time.  It was just the two of us, but that particular visit was different from the ones before.  It was “Drag Queen Show” night, a fact we only realized when- at the stroke of midnight- the bouncers started clearing the dance floor. 

Once everybody was pushed back to the sidelines, a slightly built flamer in a blue shirt took center stage to MC the extravaganza.  Dani and I took refuge just to the left of the dance floor, (closer than you might expect), and what we saw then was not meant for heterosexual eyes.

An Aretha Franklin song began to emanate from the speakers; only, it was a techno remix that caused my hips to sway.  This was the cue for a scantily clad vixen in a white dress to burst across the hanging bead threshold.  Lithe and tan with a HUGE bouffant of blond hair, this tall drink of cocksucker came sashaying onto the dance floor.  She had a microphone in her hand, and was thusly lipsinking to the Aretha Franklin song.

Now, I’m not retarded, so- given the bar I was in- I realized that this was a man in woman’s garb.  But, GOD DAMN he/she was fine!!!  So much so, in fact, that my liquor soaked mind kept going back and forth.  I remember being mesmerized by the performance, going so far as to level my eyes and give shim my best “come hither” look.  I also remember constantly staring at his/her crotch, again going back and forth because I couldn’t see a bulge.  His/her white sequined dress had a slit all the way up to the top, but there was nothing but flatness where those tan legs rose to make a ‘V’.

It was only when the drag queen made eye contact and smiled, that I turned to Dani.

“HOLY SHIT!” I yelled, leaning in so she could hear me over the music, “THERE’S NO WAY THAT’S A DUDE!  LOOK AT MY PANTS!  I THINK I’M GETTING A CHUBBY!!!”

Dani laughed- but she wasn’t the only one.  A succession of giggles brought my attention up, and there I saw a pair of smoking hot chicks looking down at me from the nearby semi-balcony.  They were sitting on the raised platform mere inches from us with their legs hanging over the side, and my breath caught in my throat.

Wow…  Just, wow…  These chicks were awesome! 

One had on a black and gray spaghetti string top complete with plunging neckline, and- drunk or not- I didn’t need to wonder if those boobs were real.  Let’s call her “Little Ms. Popsout” for reasons that will become apparent shortly.  Little Ms. Popsout sported that athletic kinda hotness, her build not unlike a swimmer’s, or a runner’s.  Her friend, who we’ll call “Chesty LaRough”, was more voluptuous, and built more like Dani, except that her “first glance” demeanor was a lot shyer than Dani’s. 

I smiled guiltily- as if I hadn’t meant for them to hear my comment- before returning my attention to the show.  Initial contact had been made, and since it was just past midnight, I knew I had time to work on ‘em.

Most of the drag queens that followed were equally striking, equally ambiguous to gender, and I used that to revel Dani with comment after humorous comment- forever aware that Little Ms. Popsout and Chesty LaRough were now eavesdropping intentionally.  In my mind, at least, I was giving my own HBO comedy special.

Before I move on, I’d like to talk about the crowd’s reaction to these drag queens.  Most of the audience was gay, so they cheered wildly for every cross-dresser that performed.  Ah, but within this general assemblage existed a subgroup that I’m going to classify as “homo-nerds”.  Numbering at just under a dozen, these stereotypical dorks would line up in front of each new diva, thus offering one, five, and ten dollar bills in the same manner that I would a stripper. 

I call ‘em homo-nerds because they looked like a bunch of internet geeks. 

In my limited experience, I’ve come to expect lesbians to dress like dudes, while their male counterparts usually dress like models from GQ magazine.  Not so with the masculine homo-nerds.  Most of ‘em were small, pudgy, and unshaven; their attire slobbish with their untucked shirts and thick glasses.  It looked like a Star Trek convention, and I became aware of a subtle but no-less-prominent class system within the male homosexual community. 

You have your alpha males, who look like the GQ guys I mentioned before.  Your beta males, like Chris McSweatyPits, who- while dressing okay- is undoubtedly the “catcher” in his relationships.  And then you have the homo-nerds, who still live with their parents, play Dungeons & Dragons online, and haven’t yet come out of the closet.

I’m not sure where the drag queens fit in.  Probably the “gods” of this religion, to whom the homo-nerds slink forward with their eyes downcast to pay homage.

Whatever the case, it was surreal for me to be standing there watching these losers filing in to extend their money laden palms, and, for a moment, I thought of barreling onto the dance floor and pushing them down.  Ya know, ‘cause that’s what I did to geeks like that in high school.

(Just kidding.  The guys I went to high school with were black Mississippi gangsters, so I was more the bullied than the bully.)

Anyway, I really was getting turned on by the successive cadre of delicious drag queens, and fearing my “straightness” would soon come into question, (by me), I was appropriately ecstatic when the show finally ended.  I’d been cracking Dani up for the length of the half hour show, simultaneously endearing myself to Little Ms. Popsout and Chesty LaRough by proxy.  You see, I couldn’t really hit on these chicks DURING the show, because it was simply too loud, and I rely a lot on wit and charm. 

The music dies down, the laser lights start strobing again, and I turn around to make my move.  Lo and behold, Dani is already doing it for me, having engaged the two hotties in conversation.

Thanks, Dani…

Over the years, a lot of people in our circle of friends have speculated on the nature of my and Dani’s relationship, but, the truth is, we compliment each other perfectly.  On my end, I have a best friend that is smart, funny, down to earth, and beautiful.  Not to mention that- because she’s married- she has no problem “hooking me up”. 

For reasons I’ve mentioned above, (and reasons I haven’t), I wouldn’t trade Dani for all the Enzyte in Chad Wicker’s pimplair.

To explain, my personality is somewhat of a crapshoot.  When people first meet me, they usually think I’m either shy and introspective, or confident and sarcastic.  Whether or not either first impression leans towards “like” or “dislike”, depends on the person.  Contrastingly, Dani is instantly loved by almost anyone she comes in contact with.  I’ve studied this phenomenon for five years now, and I honestly can’t put my finger on the reason “why”.  Yeah, she’s cool, she’s unintimidatingly sure of herself, but it goes beyond that.  People see something in Dani that makes them trust her immediately, makes them admire her immediately, makes them know WITHOUT DOUBT that she’s not trying to scam ‘em for anything.

To give a near and present example, Little Ms. Popsout and Chesty LaRough never asked Dani if she was gay.  They never even entertained the idea that she was “hitting” on them.  No, they merely fell in love with her, (in the non-sexual sense), and that love trickled down to me.

Five minutes after the drag queen show was over, I was dancing porno-style with three stunning women.

Thanks, Dani…

You might think this ends with a night of hot sweaty ménage a three- but you’d be wrong.  Shortly after our pelvic-thrusting-fest began, Little Ms. Popsout let it slip that she and Chesty LaRough were in high school. 

I shit you NOT!!! 

She told me I reminded her of a wrestling coach that worked with “the seniors”, (a rather skilled ground fighter named John Garrison, whom I actually know). 

No…  Fucking…  Way…  

“How the hell did you get in here?!?” I asked, leaning in to scream in Little Ms. Popsout’s ear, “Didn’t they card your seventeen year old ass?!?”

“We know people,” she told me, winking coyly before reaching up to adjust her top.

Her boobs were CONSTANTLY on the verge of popping right out of her spaghetti-string blouse, and I was CONSTANTLY looking for the emergence of nipple.

With hesitation, I’ll say that I did indeed see the tops of the mountains, (accidentally), but I’m no child molester.  Satan Mike would’ve DEFINITELY pushed the hand I’d been dealt, but I wasn’t that wasted yet, so I focused my attention on Dani, thus turning away ever so subtly whenever Little Ms. Popsout or Chesty LaRough would start dry-humping my leg.

I thought about baseball a lot that night…

The four of us had faux techno music sex for more than an hour, which was a hellish situation for me since I knew it wouldn’t bloom to fruition.  With one of my dance partners married, and the other two jailbait, I might as well have been jerking off.

Ya see, people?!?  THIS is why I don’t go to strip clubs!!!

Not all was lost, however, since one of our fellow patrons gave me a brief but needed outlet for testosterone.  I’m sure I LOOKED like I was mad-pimpin’, and a thoroughly hammered dumbass tried to muscle in on my non-action. 

At one point in the night, I noticed this drunk guy in a white soaking wet tee-shirt inching ever closer to our circle of futile flirting.  Frat boy, most likely, because he had that “air”.  You know what I’m talking about?  That arrogance only youth and alcohol can collaborate to create.

Let’s call him “GinHyena”, because the aroma of cheep gin was seeping from his sweaty pores, and because he was trying to scavenge my perceived “kill”.  Five foot nine, a hundred and seventy pounds, he kept rubbing his dick on Little Ms. Popsout from behind, and then Chesty LaRough, but they shrugged him off.  I tried to be civil at first, giving a stern shake of my head, and then a full blown Descado Glare, but he was too drunk to take the hint.

A half a second after his final rejection, GinHyena reached out for Dani, thus grabbing the waste band of her tight black pants and pulling her pelvis towards his. 

I reacted before I realized I’d moved.

With a freakishly unconventional upward swing of my right arm, I scooped his hand away from Dani’s waste band and gripped it tight, thus bending his wrist at an angle so that he cursed and went up on his tiptoes.  This was not a martial arts move, per say, but more a demonstration of raw strength.  

His arm was extended; my arm was extended, so there was no real leverage involved.  I was just out-muscling him so that it looked like he was making an open-palmed offering to the drunken dumbass gods.