I’m not a spring chicken, but I’m not closing in on my final days, either; I’m about the age where I’m old enough to know better, and young enough to do it anyway. So, last night I went out “dancing” with a gorgeous, stylish, flame-haired girlfriend. Now, we’ve gone actual dancing before — blues dancing, where the men sweep you around like it’s a cotillion, and you end the night in a dreamy, sexy haze.
This was not that kind of dancing.
This was more akin to an eighth-grade social, where all the girls gyrate together trying to imitate an Usher video, and all the men flank the perimeter, awkwardly staring at whatever body part they’ve recently learned makes them feel all tingly in their private bits. As the alcohol seeps into everyone’s system, the groups start stumbling closer to each other to make random contact (and it occurs to me that this is the very literal definition of “bumping uglies”). It’s a lot like a nature program.
So Girlfriend and I are watching the hot mess, noting the proliferation of faux-hawks, and musing about what the group of possible prostitutes actually does for a living (shopgirls? Olive Garden hostesses?), when a velvet-clad mancub sidles up to us. In what we think was an effort at a clever opening gambit, he calls us “cougars” and then insults the city of our residence while making clear that he is a complete douche (HE’S visiting from San Francisco, a REAL city with actually cool clubs, but he comes back here to make it rain on his friends, because his money goes so much farther here). So, how’d we like to party with him?
We need more drinks.
When I return, two unadulterated tequilas in hand (really you only need to be roofied once to never let anyone get you a drink ever again), I find Girlfriend has somehow amped up this conversation, so that Mancub is almost at “frenzy,” and it’s only been five minutes. After telling me how “kinky” she is – (what the hell did she say to him while I was gone?!) – he tells us we need to come back to his hotel room at the Nines, because he’s “explosive” and “like a fuckin’ animal, man” and we “need to have a reason to remember 2013, some fireworks.” I can’t help imagining his room is full of Mythbusters-style detonation experiments, but I suspect this is unlikely. Girlfriend tells him she’s already checked the Nines off her list. I snicker; he just looks confused. He says he needs some shots, and he’ll be back after he “goes and parties,” but he’ll “bring back some fresh meat for us cougars to devour, since we’ve come down from the hills to feed.” I miss him already.
When he swoops back he’s brought two latinos from the updated-Miami-Vice style school, obviously brothers, obviously, like, twelve years old, and obviously COMPLETELY NOT INTERESTED in the approaching-death spinsters that their mate has foisted them on. I observe aloud that the brothers are wearing identical shoes, and this confuses them. Now I am confused — did they not notice they are wearing identical shoes? They clearly both shopped for them at the “Discount Pimp” store, so is this one of those embarrassing moments where OMG he’s wearing exactly.the.same.thing. as me!?! The brothers cannot get away from me fast enough.
Mancub comes back and asks me: “So. Where do you girls draw the line?” …. um. Um.
[It’s been so long since I drew a line! Can I have a pencil? What kind of line? Help, Girlfriend! Please come back!]
Mercifully, he continues, absolving me from the need to imagine the context in which I should think of these imaginary lines. “Like, you know. Drugs? Nose candy?” … Oh, whew. Girlfriend is back. He repeats: “Nose candy, are you interested? You know, party?” Girlfriend catches on: “OH! You mean COCAINE.” Mancub FREAKS. “Shhhhhh!” … I’m not sure whom he thinks could possibly be interested in this exchange: apathetic hipster security? Or maybe the NSA can hear him over “Brittney, Bitch” at 180 decibels?
Wait: I just remembered how to draw a line! It’s right before I accept drugs from and go back to some complete stranger’s hotel room! Actually, it’s about 500 miles before that happens!
All of the sudden I am assaulted by the smell of Drakkar, malt liquor, and weed, and realize
something someone has started humping my leg. It’s time to call it a night and slink back up to our den in the hills… nothing good to eat down here tonight.