Amaretto Sour
*** Friday ***
The weekend has arrived a little faster than I had hoping for. I had intended to get a haircut and to get the apartment squared away a little better. My friend A.C. has invited me over for some gaming with friends from work. I’m about ready to hit the door when Mike asks if I’m going to a going away celebration for Kate at a local sports bar. I figure I’ll make a brief showing then get the haircut I need before going out.
There is fair turnout for Kate’s going away party, but one suffering from a small malaise that I have noticed at most of our company functions these days. Our boss is there, a man who is soon on to bigger and better things within the corporate structure. His smile is genuine and he is an easy man to like, but when he is not talking to someone he has a distracted and unhappy look. I don’t know if this has to do with the changes soon to come for him and change of location, or whether other personal problems dog him. I wish him well, but I think everyone feels that some sense of community is being lost. It has been waning for sometime, but his departure makes it all the more obvious.
Still the party is not completely joyless, ironically it is the newer hires that seem to be the most jovial, boasting loudly and challenging one and all to games of pool.
I have brought along a copy of a new Top Ten list I have been working on for my blog and for entering in a contest on the David Letterman website. I often share these with a few friends like A.C and Mike, but my humor takes harsh review from them. Not that they don’t think I’m funny, but their appreciation is tempered by a strange mix of competition for class-clown and genuine constructive criticism. Like people that look down on TV watching, their appreciation for humor is mainly for that which is spontaneous. We probably all consider our selves the best at spontaneous humor, but I’m the only one who puts pen to paper to work on jokes in a more premeditated (and thus lowbrow) way.
Anyway, like an eight-year-old at show and tell I pass around a printed version of my newest list to a wider audience at the party. To my surprise many begin to laugh out loud and congratulate me on my cleverness, insisting that I email them copies to pass along to other friends. It is a bit of a shock compared to the usual tepid reviews I get from my closer circle of friends.
I get so caught up in enjoying my coworkers’ praise I linger much later at the party than I had planned and a haircut is now not an option. I go home, catch a show I usually watch, and start to putter around the apartment. I’m still planning on going out and visiting A.C.’s party along the way, but the night is getting away from me. I’m still in my jeans, I could shower and still go out, but I’m unhappy with the mess my hair has become. I keep puttering around the house, dithering on whether I should just head out and join A.C.’s party only and not bother with preening, but the party had started at 7 and it is now 10:30. It would still be going on, but A.C.’s parties can go either way -- not getting into full drive until 11 or sputtering out at about 11. I decide to just flop down on the bed and work on my blog, entering the gem of a Top Ten list that had gotten me so much attention at the party. There's always tomorrow to go out, and if I went out tonight I'd just end up at the Masonic, and I haven't been having that great a time there lately.
*** Saturday ***
I've done the gym, gotten a haircut, run some errands, worked some more around the apartment, then decide to color my hair -- probably the real main reason I hadn't gone out the night before. I could have touched up the gray on the sides Friday, but that would have left darker patches on the touched up areas that might get exaggerated after a haircut. Now I have a fresh haircut and the coloring will look natural and even. As I wait for the dye to set I take care of other acts of preening I never indulged in when I was in my twenties, like thinning my chest hair with trimmers, and shaving the patch of hair I have on my back between my shoulders. I go so far as to dab a little hand lotion at the corners of my eyes wondering if it will soften some crow's feet that are starting to become noticeable. I have put hair color on my eyebrows as well so as to make sure everything matches. Before rising they have a huge beetle-brow exaggerating effect, which along with the pale yellow dabs of hand lotion at the corners of my eyes combine to create the clown visage that stares back at me from the mirror. It occurs to me I have mutated into the character that Peter Sellers played in "There's A Girl In My Soup". A story about a middle-aged man doing exactly what I am – expending a lot of effort trying to stay young (look young) and chasing women too young for him.
By the time I've finished with my getting ready ritual it is getting close to eleven. A little later than I would have liked to hit the town, because I like to arrive before the lines form and the clubs become crowded. In fact many evenings I will leave around midnight not because I am tired or bored, but because it is just too crowded to bear.
I head out, feeling almost like I’m going to a job. I must force myself to go out and socialize. I know in the long run I would regret not going out and my aloneness not cured by staying at home and watching TV. I’ve tried online dating a couple of times -- it is just as hit and miss as regular dating. Still I will probably give it a try again soon.
I haven’t been having that great of a time on my own at the High Dive lately, but I had been there with Ammie a couple of weeks before. An ex-girlfriend that was being her usually flaky self and making noises about getting back together, we had a decent time. While there I had run into another ex Charlotte. I don’t expect to run into Charlotte again tonight, but I would be lying to say it isn’t a factor in deciding to try the High Dive.
There is already a long line, but I queue up anyway. The evening is not that late, and it is probably just taking the staff that long to check IDs for a sudden crush -- get there too late of course and you will wait all night once they hit capacity, which could happen anytime, but generally doesn’t until after 11:30.
The line moves slowly but fairly steadily. I am annoyed by the arrival of people who jump the crowd control ropes to join other friends they know, but who were probably not really saving them a place in line, causing the queue to move backwards a step or two from time to time. Am I just annoyed because I have so few friends that would invite me to cut in line? Probably not, judging from the looks and grumbles and see and hear from elsewhere in line behind, but no one does much about it. It occurs to me that thousands (if not millions) of fights have probably started over this sort of thing, but I doubt there are firm laws on line standing behavior to exclude cutting. Club owners probably turn a blind eye knowing the greater liability would be to intervene to enforce fairness. Hostile stares are the only punishment the line cutters get and they seem not to care.
Once inside I decide to take a trip full circuit around the club, almost like a burglar casing a joint. No sign of Charlotte, but a lot of pretty other women. One of the first girls I notice is wearing some sort of push up bra with a white top open all the way down to her beltline, it has some sort of cross lacing like a corset only in front. The effect it eye catching to say the least, and it is almost impossible not to stare at the far above ample cleavage. Of course to dress this way is to invite some amount of gawking I would have to imagine. Why it would be rude not to stare, I muse to myself.
She is with a small group of friends, but the women are clustered together on one side and the men on the other, so I decide they are probably all just casual friends and not couples. “Hello, would you care to dance?” I ask?
“Sure, why not,” she answers enthusiastically. She hands her drink and coat to a friend standing next to her.
“My name’s Larry, what’s yours?” I ask as we push towards the dance floor. The club already appears to be approaching capacity.
“Audrey,” she replies. I actually do a double take upon learning her name is Audrey. She is stunningly beautiful, a very dark shade of brown, and very well endowed on top. I am aware of a black adult actress named Audrey and I confess to checking to make sure it wasn’t her.
We dance a few songs and she rejoins her friends without saying a word before leaving the floor. It seems odd. When women dance out of politeness or pity it is usually for a single song. When they dance more, there are usually some words of parting. The song ends and Audrey turns and leaves not even a glace back. I’ve had a good time dancing, I think I acquitted myself a fair dancer, and appreciate the time on the floor, so don’t dwell on the sudden departure.
I run into a friend named Jay. I have known Jay for years, though only from running into him at clubs we used to frequent in common.
“How you doing?” he asks and we shake hands.
“Oh pretty good I guess,” I say, “I just got off the floor with that girl in white.”
“Which one?”
“That one, behind the one in blue” I clarify, to which Jay nods in appreciation and is looking in the right direction so I assume he sees Audrey. “Her name’s Audrey, but when we got done dancing she just turned and rejoined her friends without saying a word”
“Ah, you can’t worry about that. That’s just the way young people are,” he states. Jay is younger than me, but not young based against the average patron’s age here tonight. Jay looks like he could be in his twenties however. I’m not sure which of the two of us is aging better, but Jay looks the same as when I met him over 10 years ago. He usually has a twenty year old on his arm -- it doesn’t look unseemly.
Audrey’s little group of friends has drifted by us by chance so I motion to Audrey. “When you need a drink a little later, just let me know” I say. I can see she already has one in hand.
She smiles back and says, “sure.”
I turn back to Jay. We talk awhile then I announce I’m off to go checkout what else the club has to offer. We do a parting handshake with a couple flourishes at the end that are semi fresh.
On the way towards the back I spot someone I recognize -- a girl named Mickey that use to come and Dance at T.K. Wendels back years ago when I use to DJ there.
“Hey, you probably don’t remember me. Your name is Mickey right?” I’m not sure why I said this in such a self-deprecating fashion.
“Ah yes,” she answers. “Where do I know you from?”
“You used to come out to T.K. Wendels back when I D.J.’d there,” we had danced a couple of times together their also, but I was hoping she would remember that fact on her own.
“And you remembered me?” she asked, seemingly a little surprised. From this I surmise she doesn’t remember me.
“It’s not hard to remember a lady as attractive as you” I say. This is only partially true. I have run into Mickey maybe two times in the last five years, so it wasn’t just the T.K. Wendels days 10 years ago. She is also the only Mickey I know, and Tony Basil’s song “Mickey” comes to mind every time I see her. And yes she is very attractive. I’m guessing we are similar in age, but she is aging very gracefully. It might get me the labeled a pig, but I’m usually not attracted to women in their late 30s early 40s. Mickey is a rare exception.
“Why thank you,” she says and smiles.
“Would you save me a dance sometime tonight,” I ask.
“Sure,” she says almost purring. She then disappears into the crowd with her girlfriend. When I first met Mickey she had been married, her husband and her coming to TK Wendels together semi often. One night she showed up alone, seemingly not in a very happy mood. I found out she had just gotten a divorce. I think we swapped numbers that night and probably danced, but some how I lost track of Mickey. I started dating Anita soon after anyway and that was a five year period I was out of circulation.
The friend Mickey disappears into the crowd with has an overly taut masculine for a woman appearance. This can be either due to staying fit to fend off aging, or she may be a lesbian. Mickey and her seem to be dancing exclusively together, sometimes provocatively so. I shrug and put it at a high probability that Mickey swings both ways. I’ve dated several women that swing both ways, somehow it has never translated into the typical male fantasy of a three-way.
I run into a cute girl named Katrina, we dance a couple of songs, and then I’m on my own again. I probably would like to get to know Katrina better, but she has a disinterested air about her. I figure if we dance again later I’ll ask for her number.
I head back over to the bar counter area, there is a girl there I had wanted to say hello to earlier.
“Hello, can I buy you drink?”
She seems to consider my question for a moment or two then acquiesces, “Sure, Amaretto Sour.”
“Amaretto Sour it is,” I say and wave at the bartender. The drink comes in an unusually short time for the High Dive. In fact most of the bars in town are extremely slow to serve customers, at least at peak. I don’t think this is just me being impatient, because when I’m out of town at far busier bars in big cities the drinks seem to come much, much faster.
“Thanks for the drink,” she says. “Aren’t you having anything?”
“Oh I’ve already had a couple of beers, and I’ve got to drive tonight,” I say. We then launch into a pleasant conversation and I learn her name is Rhonda and she is from out of town, and just visiting with some friends. I’m struck by how pleasant and polite she is. I wonder if she is just gabbing with me out of politeness. I can’t really read her.
As we are still gabbing when a couple of her friends come up to join us. One of her friends immediately sidles up to me. I’m quite surprised because it seems disrespectful of Rhonda, but this girl is hot. Now Rhonda is cute, but she doesn’t really seem interested in me, and she’s definitely not pressing her self up against me the way this girl is. Still I hate to just seemingly take after one of her friends. Her new friend tells me her name, but I don’t quite catch it. I should ask her to repeat it but she is already, running her hands through my hair.
“What’s your name?” she asks. She’s obviously in a tipsy state, maybe well on her way to getting drunk. I feel faintly embarrassed by her sudden intense interest in me, but I try not to let it show. I really am quite stunned by how good-looking she is, and that she would show such interest in me uninvited.
“Larry,” I answer.
“Larry, are you going to do a shot with us?"
I look over at Rhonda apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind, you weren’t quite this persuasive.” Rhonda shrugs, she seems not to be offended, but still I feel somewhat guilty.
I turn back to the girl whose name I didn’t catch (or worse forgotten). “Sure,” I motion again to the bartender. The drinks come, and we throw them back quickly.
“Larry you are hot,” she says. She has moved onto my lap, and has her arms around me. I drape my arms around her waste, but try not to be offensive or groping. “Do you know how hot you are?”
“I’m OK,” I say.
She puffs up a little with a huff. “Now don’t going acting like I’m stupid or don’t know what I’m talking about,” she says.
“OK, I’m being modest, yes I think I’m pretty good looking, especially for my age.” I keep telling myself not to bring up the age thing so easily, but this girl is from St. Louis. I don’t particularly want to waste time chasing a girl from out of town that thinks I’m younger than I am if it isn’t likely to lead anywhere. Not that I’d lie to an in town girl about my age, just that I might wait until after a dinner or two to bring it up. Conceited or not, I think I look at least 10 if not 15 years younger than my actual age, and this girl is doing nothing to disabuse me of that impression.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“46,” I reply after a short pause.
“You are not 46!” she says.
“Well I’d like to think I don’t look it, but I’m am”
“You are not!” she says again, “you’re like 30”
“I wish I were, but I’m not”
“You are not 46! Quit fooling with me”
At first I thought she was just being polite, but now I’m pretty sure she honestly believes I’m not over 40. I take out my wallet and remove my Drivers License handing it to her as proof. She focuses on it intently, looking back and forth from it to me, evidently to confirm it is not a fake.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re 46!” she says. “Does he look 46?” she says looking over to her friends, who nod in polite agreement, but who aren’t gushing the way she is.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“I’m 23,” she answers, “and I still think you are hot!” The fact that she is exactly half my age doesn’t escape my notice.
She begins to dance against me even though we are still at the bar and nowhere near the dance floor. In fact it is more of a lap dance, and she grabs my hands and puts them on her thighs. I rub them firmly, but resist exploring more intimate areas, though I doubt she would have objected. I feel a little sheepish, worrying the management will ask us to take it outside. This actually happened to me once with Ammie who I’d taken with me to Indianapolis for a night on the town. I seem to attract women how have few inhibitions in public. I might also note I seem to have a knack for meeting women in bars who I later turn out our strippers. There are either a lot of strippers in the world, or I meet an above average share. I suspect the latter. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if this girl danced professionally from time to time, but I’m still amazed she focused on me. Maybe she just figured anyone that Rhonda would be talking to would be an OK Joe.
One of her other friends, not Rhonda, stops by and grabs her by the hand. “Let’s go dance,” she says.
“We’re going dancing,” my newfound 23 year old friend says, and motions for me to follow. I try to keep up, but the crowd is at max, and I don’t feel like knocking people down just to keep up with the girls. I then notice that her friend has pulled her passed the dance floor and is probably headed back towards the bathrooms. I sigh to myself realizing the friend is probably on a self appointed rescue mission, a mission to rescue her friend from herself and from me.
I continue to push my way past the dance floor, possibly to see if I can find Audrey again when I run into Mickey. “Have you been dancing yet?” she asks.
“Uh, a little,” I respond. “I was just looking for someone to dance with now.”
“Well come on then,” she says and pulls by my hand back to the dance floor.
The DJ has entered a Techno set, and while it is crowded and I’m having a little trouble getting enough space to dance well, I think I’m doing pretty good job. I have a pretty frenetic uninhibited style dancing to techno, and Mickey smiles at me largely when I look up from my high-speed jig. We dance probably 5 songs in a row, before she makes to rejoin her friend. I hadn’t been sweating much while dancing, but now that we’ve stopped my bow beads with perspiration to an annoying degree.
“Say would you like to go out for an evening sometime?” I ask as we exit the floor.
“Sure that’d be nice, why don’t you give me your number?”
I fumble around with my wallet looking for a business card, but come up empty, them I’m looking for any scrap of paper, eventually I write it down on the back of my emergency road side assistance card. I figure they send a new one every time I re-up my insurance anyway, or I can get it again later off of the internet. The pen quits writing once, and I have to shake it. I beginning to think perhaps I’m looking a little too excited and impatient trying to get the number down and in her hand. I would have asked for her number, but I didn’t want to go through the scene of trying to find something to write on again. I figure if it is meant to be she’ll give me a call. I’ve actually found this is rarely the case, but with Mickey it seems best not to push it anyway.
Now that Mickey is gone, I’m left look for another dance. I grab some napkins from the bar and dab my sweat away. I spy Audrey again at a table alone, she is sitting back to the dance floor with her head on her hand lost in thought.
“You don’t look like your having a good time, can I buy you a drink?” I ask.
“I’m not, but you can get me an Amaretto sour.”
“One Amaretto Sour coming up,” I say. It seems to be the drink of choice tonight.
I return with her drink in short order, having better luck getting drinks at the bar than I’m used to. Maybe the owners have started cracking the whip on the employees. It seems odd that they wouldn’t just naturally work as fast as they can during a crush, their money in tips far exceeding salary on a good night.
“So what’s up? Boy problems?” I ask, not really expecting that to be the answer.
“I just broke up with my boyfriend,” she replies.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, “and I hate to seem opportunistic, but I’m probably leaving here soon, maybe I could get your number and take you out to dinner sometime.” I had had it in mind to dance, but looking back at the crowded floor and with a retro rock set playing, I realize it would have been pointless to ask for a dance. It’s also getting close to closing time.
We exchange numbers, and I figure I’ll make one last pass by the cute girl from St. Louis. She and her friend have not rejoined Rhonda.
“Hey Rhonda I hope you didn’t feel insulted by my paying attention to your friend,” I say.
“Not at all, she really seems to like you.”
“I probably shouldn’t ask, especially since your other friend seems to be trying to save her from me, but could you give her my number for me?” of course I am asking and writing my number down on a napkin to hand to Rhonda.
“I’ll be sure and give this to her,” she replies pleasantly. I can’t help but think how much luckier I would have been had it been Rhonda expressing an interest in me.
There is probably about 15 minutes to last call. I’ve gotten in four dances with four very pretty ladies, so I decide to call it a night. I’m not really expecting anything to come of the three numbers I’ve handed out, or the one I’ve gotten, but I feel a certain confidence returning. In fact every women I asked to dance, danced with me this night. Like they say -- “age ain’t nothin’ but a number.”
*** Prolog ***
It’s almost a week later. Mickey and the Hot Girl have not called. I’ve called Audrey a couple of times, and expect to take her out this coming Monday, but I won’t count that egg until it’s hatched. I went out Wednesday and had a good time dancing again, this time at Lava, a dance club that has been around a longtime, though under a different name. I even DJ’ed Lava once, but that was back when it was still called Bradley’s. I plan on heading out tonight, Friday, to the Masonic, and probably to the High Dive again on Saturday. I could write up my Wednesday evening exploits has well -- but won’t -- I’m falling behind in living my life and getting it down on paper. As long as I’m meeting new women I’ll stay with this new routine. Should my charms seem to wear off again, I’ll try the internet and/or traveling up to Chicago or Indianapolis to meet women.
For those that read my writing in detail I have to come clean on one issue. If you look at my blogger.com profile you will see it reads 39. I probably should change it to read 46, my true age. Like a salesman trying to get my foot in the door, I’ve fibbed on my profile in case any women that might be passing through casually might take interest in me. For anyone reading this far into my writings I’ve probably no need to keep secrets, especially since I’m so brutally honest in these postings, including my true age.
If you are reading this close to the date of original posting it has not had much proofreading. As always be forgiving of my typos and grammar, I really have slapped this together rather hastily. Gotta hit the clubs tonight remember!
The weekend has arrived a little faster than I had hoping for. I had intended to get a haircut and to get the apartment squared away a little better. My friend A.C. has invited me over for some gaming with friends from work. I’m about ready to hit the door when Mike asks if I’m going to a going away celebration for Kate at a local sports bar. I figure I’ll make a brief showing then get the haircut I need before going out.
There is fair turnout for Kate’s going away party, but one suffering from a small malaise that I have noticed at most of our company functions these days. Our boss is there, a man who is soon on to bigger and better things within the corporate structure. His smile is genuine and he is an easy man to like, but when he is not talking to someone he has a distracted and unhappy look. I don’t know if this has to do with the changes soon to come for him and change of location, or whether other personal problems dog him. I wish him well, but I think everyone feels that some sense of community is being lost. It has been waning for sometime, but his departure makes it all the more obvious.
Still the party is not completely joyless, ironically it is the newer hires that seem to be the most jovial, boasting loudly and challenging one and all to games of pool.
I have brought along a copy of a new Top Ten list I have been working on for my blog and for entering in a contest on the David Letterman website. I often share these with a few friends like A.C and Mike, but my humor takes harsh review from them. Not that they don’t think I’m funny, but their appreciation is tempered by a strange mix of competition for class-clown and genuine constructive criticism. Like people that look down on TV watching, their appreciation for humor is mainly for that which is spontaneous. We probably all consider our selves the best at spontaneous humor, but I’m the only one who puts pen to paper to work on jokes in a more premeditated (and thus lowbrow) way.
Anyway, like an eight-year-old at show and tell I pass around a printed version of my newest list to a wider audience at the party. To my surprise many begin to laugh out loud and congratulate me on my cleverness, insisting that I email them copies to pass along to other friends. It is a bit of a shock compared to the usual tepid reviews I get from my closer circle of friends.
I get so caught up in enjoying my coworkers’ praise I linger much later at the party than I had planned and a haircut is now not an option. I go home, catch a show I usually watch, and start to putter around the apartment. I’m still planning on going out and visiting A.C.’s party along the way, but the night is getting away from me. I’m still in my jeans, I could shower and still go out, but I’m unhappy with the mess my hair has become. I keep puttering around the house, dithering on whether I should just head out and join A.C.’s party only and not bother with preening, but the party had started at 7 and it is now 10:30. It would still be going on, but A.C.’s parties can go either way -- not getting into full drive until 11 or sputtering out at about 11. I decide to just flop down on the bed and work on my blog, entering the gem of a Top Ten list that had gotten me so much attention at the party. There's always tomorrow to go out, and if I went out tonight I'd just end up at the Masonic, and I haven't been having that great a time there lately.
*** Saturday ***
I've done the gym, gotten a haircut, run some errands, worked some more around the apartment, then decide to color my hair -- probably the real main reason I hadn't gone out the night before. I could have touched up the gray on the sides Friday, but that would have left darker patches on the touched up areas that might get exaggerated after a haircut. Now I have a fresh haircut and the coloring will look natural and even. As I wait for the dye to set I take care of other acts of preening I never indulged in when I was in my twenties, like thinning my chest hair with trimmers, and shaving the patch of hair I have on my back between my shoulders. I go so far as to dab a little hand lotion at the corners of my eyes wondering if it will soften some crow's feet that are starting to become noticeable. I have put hair color on my eyebrows as well so as to make sure everything matches. Before rising they have a huge beetle-brow exaggerating effect, which along with the pale yellow dabs of hand lotion at the corners of my eyes combine to create the clown visage that stares back at me from the mirror. It occurs to me I have mutated into the character that Peter Sellers played in "There's A Girl In My Soup". A story about a middle-aged man doing exactly what I am – expending a lot of effort trying to stay young (look young) and chasing women too young for him.
By the time I've finished with my getting ready ritual it is getting close to eleven. A little later than I would have liked to hit the town, because I like to arrive before the lines form and the clubs become crowded. In fact many evenings I will leave around midnight not because I am tired or bored, but because it is just too crowded to bear.
I head out, feeling almost like I’m going to a job. I must force myself to go out and socialize. I know in the long run I would regret not going out and my aloneness not cured by staying at home and watching TV. I’ve tried online dating a couple of times -- it is just as hit and miss as regular dating. Still I will probably give it a try again soon.
I haven’t been having that great of a time on my own at the High Dive lately, but I had been there with Ammie a couple of weeks before. An ex-girlfriend that was being her usually flaky self and making noises about getting back together, we had a decent time. While there I had run into another ex Charlotte. I don’t expect to run into Charlotte again tonight, but I would be lying to say it isn’t a factor in deciding to try the High Dive.
There is already a long line, but I queue up anyway. The evening is not that late, and it is probably just taking the staff that long to check IDs for a sudden crush -- get there too late of course and you will wait all night once they hit capacity, which could happen anytime, but generally doesn’t until after 11:30.
The line moves slowly but fairly steadily. I am annoyed by the arrival of people who jump the crowd control ropes to join other friends they know, but who were probably not really saving them a place in line, causing the queue to move backwards a step or two from time to time. Am I just annoyed because I have so few friends that would invite me to cut in line? Probably not, judging from the looks and grumbles and see and hear from elsewhere in line behind, but no one does much about it. It occurs to me that thousands (if not millions) of fights have probably started over this sort of thing, but I doubt there are firm laws on line standing behavior to exclude cutting. Club owners probably turn a blind eye knowing the greater liability would be to intervene to enforce fairness. Hostile stares are the only punishment the line cutters get and they seem not to care.
Once inside I decide to take a trip full circuit around the club, almost like a burglar casing a joint. No sign of Charlotte, but a lot of pretty other women. One of the first girls I notice is wearing some sort of push up bra with a white top open all the way down to her beltline, it has some sort of cross lacing like a corset only in front. The effect it eye catching to say the least, and it is almost impossible not to stare at the far above ample cleavage. Of course to dress this way is to invite some amount of gawking I would have to imagine. Why it would be rude not to stare, I muse to myself.
She is with a small group of friends, but the women are clustered together on one side and the men on the other, so I decide they are probably all just casual friends and not couples. “Hello, would you care to dance?” I ask?
“Sure, why not,” she answers enthusiastically. She hands her drink and coat to a friend standing next to her.
“My name’s Larry, what’s yours?” I ask as we push towards the dance floor. The club already appears to be approaching capacity.
“Audrey,” she replies. I actually do a double take upon learning her name is Audrey. She is stunningly beautiful, a very dark shade of brown, and very well endowed on top. I am aware of a black adult actress named Audrey and I confess to checking to make sure it wasn’t her.
We dance a few songs and she rejoins her friends without saying a word before leaving the floor. It seems odd. When women dance out of politeness or pity it is usually for a single song. When they dance more, there are usually some words of parting. The song ends and Audrey turns and leaves not even a glace back. I’ve had a good time dancing, I think I acquitted myself a fair dancer, and appreciate the time on the floor, so don’t dwell on the sudden departure.
I run into a friend named Jay. I have known Jay for years, though only from running into him at clubs we used to frequent in common.
“How you doing?” he asks and we shake hands.
“Oh pretty good I guess,” I say, “I just got off the floor with that girl in white.”
“Which one?”
“That one, behind the one in blue” I clarify, to which Jay nods in appreciation and is looking in the right direction so I assume he sees Audrey. “Her name’s Audrey, but when we got done dancing she just turned and rejoined her friends without saying a word”
“Ah, you can’t worry about that. That’s just the way young people are,” he states. Jay is younger than me, but not young based against the average patron’s age here tonight. Jay looks like he could be in his twenties however. I’m not sure which of the two of us is aging better, but Jay looks the same as when I met him over 10 years ago. He usually has a twenty year old on his arm -- it doesn’t look unseemly.
Audrey’s little group of friends has drifted by us by chance so I motion to Audrey. “When you need a drink a little later, just let me know” I say. I can see she already has one in hand.
She smiles back and says, “sure.”
I turn back to Jay. We talk awhile then I announce I’m off to go checkout what else the club has to offer. We do a parting handshake with a couple flourishes at the end that are semi fresh.
On the way towards the back I spot someone I recognize -- a girl named Mickey that use to come and Dance at T.K. Wendels back years ago when I use to DJ there.
“Hey, you probably don’t remember me. Your name is Mickey right?” I’m not sure why I said this in such a self-deprecating fashion.
“Ah yes,” she answers. “Where do I know you from?”
“You used to come out to T.K. Wendels back when I D.J.’d there,” we had danced a couple of times together their also, but I was hoping she would remember that fact on her own.
“And you remembered me?” she asked, seemingly a little surprised. From this I surmise she doesn’t remember me.
“It’s not hard to remember a lady as attractive as you” I say. This is only partially true. I have run into Mickey maybe two times in the last five years, so it wasn’t just the T.K. Wendels days 10 years ago. She is also the only Mickey I know, and Tony Basil’s song “Mickey” comes to mind every time I see her. And yes she is very attractive. I’m guessing we are similar in age, but she is aging very gracefully. It might get me the labeled a pig, but I’m usually not attracted to women in their late 30s early 40s. Mickey is a rare exception.
“Why thank you,” she says and smiles.
“Would you save me a dance sometime tonight,” I ask.
“Sure,” she says almost purring. She then disappears into the crowd with her girlfriend. When I first met Mickey she had been married, her husband and her coming to TK Wendels together semi often. One night she showed up alone, seemingly not in a very happy mood. I found out she had just gotten a divorce. I think we swapped numbers that night and probably danced, but some how I lost track of Mickey. I started dating Anita soon after anyway and that was a five year period I was out of circulation.
The friend Mickey disappears into the crowd with has an overly taut masculine for a woman appearance. This can be either due to staying fit to fend off aging, or she may be a lesbian. Mickey and her seem to be dancing exclusively together, sometimes provocatively so. I shrug and put it at a high probability that Mickey swings both ways. I’ve dated several women that swing both ways, somehow it has never translated into the typical male fantasy of a three-way.
I run into a cute girl named Katrina, we dance a couple of songs, and then I’m on my own again. I probably would like to get to know Katrina better, but she has a disinterested air about her. I figure if we dance again later I’ll ask for her number.
I head back over to the bar counter area, there is a girl there I had wanted to say hello to earlier.
“Hello, can I buy you drink?”
She seems to consider my question for a moment or two then acquiesces, “Sure, Amaretto Sour.”
“Amaretto Sour it is,” I say and wave at the bartender. The drink comes in an unusually short time for the High Dive. In fact most of the bars in town are extremely slow to serve customers, at least at peak. I don’t think this is just me being impatient, because when I’m out of town at far busier bars in big cities the drinks seem to come much, much faster.
“Thanks for the drink,” she says. “Aren’t you having anything?”
“Oh I’ve already had a couple of beers, and I’ve got to drive tonight,” I say. We then launch into a pleasant conversation and I learn her name is Rhonda and she is from out of town, and just visiting with some friends. I’m struck by how pleasant and polite she is. I wonder if she is just gabbing with me out of politeness. I can’t really read her.
As we are still gabbing when a couple of her friends come up to join us. One of her friends immediately sidles up to me. I’m quite surprised because it seems disrespectful of Rhonda, but this girl is hot. Now Rhonda is cute, but she doesn’t really seem interested in me, and she’s definitely not pressing her self up against me the way this girl is. Still I hate to just seemingly take after one of her friends. Her new friend tells me her name, but I don’t quite catch it. I should ask her to repeat it but she is already, running her hands through my hair.
“What’s your name?” she asks. She’s obviously in a tipsy state, maybe well on her way to getting drunk. I feel faintly embarrassed by her sudden intense interest in me, but I try not to let it show. I really am quite stunned by how good-looking she is, and that she would show such interest in me uninvited.
“Larry,” I answer.
“Larry, are you going to do a shot with us?"
I look over at Rhonda apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind, you weren’t quite this persuasive.” Rhonda shrugs, she seems not to be offended, but still I feel somewhat guilty.
I turn back to the girl whose name I didn’t catch (or worse forgotten). “Sure,” I motion again to the bartender. The drinks come, and we throw them back quickly.
“Larry you are hot,” she says. She has moved onto my lap, and has her arms around me. I drape my arms around her waste, but try not to be offensive or groping. “Do you know how hot you are?”
“I’m OK,” I say.
She puffs up a little with a huff. “Now don’t going acting like I’m stupid or don’t know what I’m talking about,” she says.
“OK, I’m being modest, yes I think I’m pretty good looking, especially for my age.” I keep telling myself not to bring up the age thing so easily, but this girl is from St. Louis. I don’t particularly want to waste time chasing a girl from out of town that thinks I’m younger than I am if it isn’t likely to lead anywhere. Not that I’d lie to an in town girl about my age, just that I might wait until after a dinner or two to bring it up. Conceited or not, I think I look at least 10 if not 15 years younger than my actual age, and this girl is doing nothing to disabuse me of that impression.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“46,” I reply after a short pause.
“You are not 46!” she says.
“Well I’d like to think I don’t look it, but I’m am”
“You are not!” she says again, “you’re like 30”
“I wish I were, but I’m not”
“You are not 46! Quit fooling with me”
At first I thought she was just being polite, but now I’m pretty sure she honestly believes I’m not over 40. I take out my wallet and remove my Drivers License handing it to her as proof. She focuses on it intently, looking back and forth from it to me, evidently to confirm it is not a fake.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re 46!” she says. “Does he look 46?” she says looking over to her friends, who nod in polite agreement, but who aren’t gushing the way she is.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“I’m 23,” she answers, “and I still think you are hot!” The fact that she is exactly half my age doesn’t escape my notice.
She begins to dance against me even though we are still at the bar and nowhere near the dance floor. In fact it is more of a lap dance, and she grabs my hands and puts them on her thighs. I rub them firmly, but resist exploring more intimate areas, though I doubt she would have objected. I feel a little sheepish, worrying the management will ask us to take it outside. This actually happened to me once with Ammie who I’d taken with me to Indianapolis for a night on the town. I seem to attract women how have few inhibitions in public. I might also note I seem to have a knack for meeting women in bars who I later turn out our strippers. There are either a lot of strippers in the world, or I meet an above average share. I suspect the latter. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if this girl danced professionally from time to time, but I’m still amazed she focused on me. Maybe she just figured anyone that Rhonda would be talking to would be an OK Joe.
One of her other friends, not Rhonda, stops by and grabs her by the hand. “Let’s go dance,” she says.
“We’re going dancing,” my newfound 23 year old friend says, and motions for me to follow. I try to keep up, but the crowd is at max, and I don’t feel like knocking people down just to keep up with the girls. I then notice that her friend has pulled her passed the dance floor and is probably headed back towards the bathrooms. I sigh to myself realizing the friend is probably on a self appointed rescue mission, a mission to rescue her friend from herself and from me.
I continue to push my way past the dance floor, possibly to see if I can find Audrey again when I run into Mickey. “Have you been dancing yet?” she asks.
“Uh, a little,” I respond. “I was just looking for someone to dance with now.”
“Well come on then,” she says and pulls by my hand back to the dance floor.
The DJ has entered a Techno set, and while it is crowded and I’m having a little trouble getting enough space to dance well, I think I’m doing pretty good job. I have a pretty frenetic uninhibited style dancing to techno, and Mickey smiles at me largely when I look up from my high-speed jig. We dance probably 5 songs in a row, before she makes to rejoin her friend. I hadn’t been sweating much while dancing, but now that we’ve stopped my bow beads with perspiration to an annoying degree.
“Say would you like to go out for an evening sometime?” I ask as we exit the floor.
“Sure that’d be nice, why don’t you give me your number?”
I fumble around with my wallet looking for a business card, but come up empty, them I’m looking for any scrap of paper, eventually I write it down on the back of my emergency road side assistance card. I figure they send a new one every time I re-up my insurance anyway, or I can get it again later off of the internet. The pen quits writing once, and I have to shake it. I beginning to think perhaps I’m looking a little too excited and impatient trying to get the number down and in her hand. I would have asked for her number, but I didn’t want to go through the scene of trying to find something to write on again. I figure if it is meant to be she’ll give me a call. I’ve actually found this is rarely the case, but with Mickey it seems best not to push it anyway.
Now that Mickey is gone, I’m left look for another dance. I grab some napkins from the bar and dab my sweat away. I spy Audrey again at a table alone, she is sitting back to the dance floor with her head on her hand lost in thought.
“You don’t look like your having a good time, can I buy you a drink?” I ask.
“I’m not, but you can get me an Amaretto sour.”
“One Amaretto Sour coming up,” I say. It seems to be the drink of choice tonight.
I return with her drink in short order, having better luck getting drinks at the bar than I’m used to. Maybe the owners have started cracking the whip on the employees. It seems odd that they wouldn’t just naturally work as fast as they can during a crush, their money in tips far exceeding salary on a good night.
“So what’s up? Boy problems?” I ask, not really expecting that to be the answer.
“I just broke up with my boyfriend,” she replies.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, “and I hate to seem opportunistic, but I’m probably leaving here soon, maybe I could get your number and take you out to dinner sometime.” I had had it in mind to dance, but looking back at the crowded floor and with a retro rock set playing, I realize it would have been pointless to ask for a dance. It’s also getting close to closing time.
We exchange numbers, and I figure I’ll make one last pass by the cute girl from St. Louis. She and her friend have not rejoined Rhonda.
“Hey Rhonda I hope you didn’t feel insulted by my paying attention to your friend,” I say.
“Not at all, she really seems to like you.”
“I probably shouldn’t ask, especially since your other friend seems to be trying to save her from me, but could you give her my number for me?” of course I am asking and writing my number down on a napkin to hand to Rhonda.
“I’ll be sure and give this to her,” she replies pleasantly. I can’t help but think how much luckier I would have been had it been Rhonda expressing an interest in me.
There is probably about 15 minutes to last call. I’ve gotten in four dances with four very pretty ladies, so I decide to call it a night. I’m not really expecting anything to come of the three numbers I’ve handed out, or the one I’ve gotten, but I feel a certain confidence returning. In fact every women I asked to dance, danced with me this night. Like they say -- “age ain’t nothin’ but a number.”
*** Prolog ***
It’s almost a week later. Mickey and the Hot Girl have not called. I’ve called Audrey a couple of times, and expect to take her out this coming Monday, but I won’t count that egg until it’s hatched. I went out Wednesday and had a good time dancing again, this time at Lava, a dance club that has been around a longtime, though under a different name. I even DJ’ed Lava once, but that was back when it was still called Bradley’s. I plan on heading out tonight, Friday, to the Masonic, and probably to the High Dive again on Saturday. I could write up my Wednesday evening exploits has well -- but won’t -- I’m falling behind in living my life and getting it down on paper. As long as I’m meeting new women I’ll stay with this new routine. Should my charms seem to wear off again, I’ll try the internet and/or traveling up to Chicago or Indianapolis to meet women.
For those that read my writing in detail I have to come clean on one issue. If you look at my blogger.com profile you will see it reads 39. I probably should change it to read 46, my true age. Like a salesman trying to get my foot in the door, I’ve fibbed on my profile in case any women that might be passing through casually might take interest in me. For anyone reading this far into my writings I’ve probably no need to keep secrets, especially since I’m so brutally honest in these postings, including my true age.
If you are reading this close to the date of original posting it has not had much proofreading. As always be forgiving of my typos and grammar, I really have slapped this together rather hastily. Gotta hit the clubs tonight remember!