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posted February 1, 2008 by Rad Dad |
Several years ago, I happened to land a date with a very sensual and petite auburn-haired goddess. I had met her in the break room of the office building where we worked. She was gainfully employed (a rarity among my female friends) as an administrative assistant working for a wanna-be executive from the real estate world. We would cross paths when I wasn't on the road peddling my employer's insurance products.
To this day I have no idea why she agreed to the date. Unless maybe it was "Be Kind to Salesmen Week". Nevertheless I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth (or so to speak) so without questioning my luck, I prepared for the date. I was so elated that it crossed my mind that possibly I understood what John Derek must have felt like when Bo agreed to their first date. Well, maybe not quite like that, but you get the idea.
My lady fair dream girl wouldn't agree to a Saturday night date. (She was probably already booked with some hunk tennis player she had met the week before at her Dad's private club, but I digress.) However, she did agree to a Friday night rendezvous at a local bar with the possibility that we would move on to dinner "if everything went well." I still haven't figured out what the hell that meant.
In preparation for the evening's festivities, I washed my car, shampooed what was left of my hair, rinsed AND repeated and even trimmed my nose hairs and beard in order to present myself in the best possible light. Though I never was a fancy dresser, I nonetheless rolled out to the local men's store where I purchased (in retrospect, of course) some of the most desperate and pitiful looking yuppie clothes that I have ever seen. I sigh as I think back on those purchases: a corduroy sport coat, Dockers and some yuppified deck shoes. My son later told me that if he ever purchased shoes like those, I had his permission to have him killed and his body cremated with the shoes on his feet.
As spiffed out in my new clothes as I was, I was in a quandary. I didn't know whether to arrive early so she wouldn't have to sit there alone and wait for me, or late to signify how "in demand" I was. Being late concerned me as I was afraid the aforementioned tennis star might show up and I'd have to spend another evening cozying up with Rosy Palm, a single man's rainy day woman. On the other hand, being early meant I would have to sit there feeling self-conscious in my yupped up attire worrying about her showing up at all. On yet another hand, if I came in late, that would show disrespect for her time and get us off on the wrong foot. You can see my dilemma. I solved the problem with what I thought at the time was a foolproof plan.
To ensure a punctual arrival, I drove to the neighborhood where the tavern was located and hid in my car in the alley straight across from the front door of the bar. When she arrived all I had to do was casually saunter straight down the alley, cross the street and into the establishment at the exact time. An absolutely brilliant plan if there ever was one.
I parked in the alley as planned and waited for the last few minutes to tick by. When the time was right, I quickly locked the car, hustled my chubby fanny across the street, whisked through the door at the exact time, took a look around and found the place absent of her and very full of everyone else. There was only one stool at the bar, and flanked by two guys. They were probably the tennis players that were now haunting my imagination. There was also and one large, round empty table in the middle of everything that consisted of about 10 chairs and a juke box in the middle of it. Now, what sort of a bar trapped in a time warp has a table with a juke box in the middle of it?
I took up the stool in the bar between the tennis players, ordered a beer and began using the mirror to watch the front door so I could meet her when she arrived. Forty minutes later, and in the middle of my third beer I realized she was very late. It crossed my mind that this could be some cruel joke that was being taped by a hidden camera that would be shown at a party I crashed. At long last, just when I was considering a trip to the men's room she breezed through the bar looking like an unescorted Hollywood starlet (is that an oxymoron?).
I left my seat at the bar and walked toward the front door to meet her but just after we made eye contact I also spotted a police car pulling up behind my illegally parked ride which I had left in the alley. The cop's lights were flashing and as he went up to my car I noticed a book of tickets in his hand and a pissed off look in his eye. I also noticed that his blue shirt went beautifully with his red neck.
When somebody else starts making choices for you, you're in trouble. In this particular case, the Officer of the Law who had taken up a position directly behind my car took priority over my hot date. I quickly escorted the young lady to the empty seat at the bar, excused myself and hauled ass across the busy street just missing being run down by a beer truck (I guess there could have been worse ways to go).
As a protector of our freedom, I fully expected the Screw to give me an opportunity to move my auto to a different location. Instead he was much less flexible that I expected and issued me a parking ticket. When I asked him if he thought that possibly there might be something else going on in the neighborhood that might be a little more serious than "honest mistake on my part" he kept writing and added a jaywalking ticket to my growing collection.
After re-parking the car in a lot about two blocks away (it cost me $20.00), I hustled back to the bar calculating the total expense of the evening which could looked like it could go over the $200.00 mark (if things went well of course).
Upon re-entering, I saw my lady chatting it up with one of the tennis players and enjoying a very creamy looking White Russian while the other jock sitting on her left side lit her cigarette. I noticed she also managed to hold his hand while he lit it. She sure was talented, that girl.
Perfect, I thought I'm out a couple of C notes and Rosy is looking more and more like a sure bet.
I managed to wedge a small space between the tennis player with the cigarette lighter my date and captured her attention by lightly touching her arm.
Now I am not a patient man, and there was no way I was about to stand by her at the bar with two hunks straight from their last Chippendales event on each side of her. If that continued, I was history. The only question that would remain would be how much it was going to cost me to be a chump.
Out of desperation I literally drug the chick to the large unoccupied table in the middle of the room, took a $20.00 bill from my front pocket (I always thought it was cooler to carry money in your pocket - might have been a Clint Eastwood thing or something), waved it at the waitress and ordered more alcohol. I needed a drink and I needed it immediately.
During the small talk she asked me if I had some change so she could play the juke box. I was not in that place to listen to Merle Haggard sing "Okie from Muskogee;" I was there to try to get lucky. But if the juke box was the means to that end then I guess I had to go along with it. But the question persisted, a jukebox? Get real. Nonetheless, I coughed up three quarters and she responded by asking me what kind of music I like. My standard line "I like all music" seemed to satisfy her so she spent my money on a Brittney Spears tune that sounded a little like the noise I listened two a few nights ago when the neighborhood dogs got locked up during doggie intercourse.
By now by bladder had expanded to about three times its normal size so I had to sacrifice the company of my lady in favor of a trip to the smallest room in the building. I excused myself in between tunes and stiff legged it into the men's room where I found the respite both satisfying and inspirational.
As I finished my business I realized that things were "going well" enough to take the direct approach. The Braille system had worked for me in the past so I decided I would put my hand on her leg, under the table, and see what she did. That way I would find out early on what might happen after dinner. Maybe this is what she meant when she said "if things went well."
I hurried to exit, walked briskly back to the table making sure to make eye contact with her during the trip all the while deciding which side of her to sit on. Remember, there were at least 20 chairs at that table with the juke box and she was intently studying the selections getting ready for me to pony up the necessary quarters. I began to wonder if this whole evening might have been a mistake.
My arrival back at our oversized table was greeted rather coolly by the lady in question but I put that off to her focusing on the juke selections. Britney was still making rather high pitched noises from the earlier selection and I was hoping against hope that she would chill out with the juke. No such luck as I was sent to the bar (between the tennis players) to get more quarters.
When I was finally seated my bladder began to bark again. I've always had trouble unloading. So I decided I would make another quick trip to the men's room to top off so when she started moaning in delight from my touch I wouldn't have to feel the need for speed.
I dashed back in, took just long enough to squirt out a good volley or two and was back at the table before you could say Madonna sucks and began the execution of plan A.
Pretending to be interested in what she was saying I leaned forward with my upper body and slowly slid my hand onto her leg (mid thigh) while continuing to lean my head close to hers.
I've never felt the internal rumblings of Mother Earth before an earthquake but I swear I felt her innards quake a bit just as my hand touched her leg. Make no mistake, there was no outward movement on her part and if I hadn't been touching her she would have been the only one to know of her reaction.
Her hand dropped below the table and landed on my wrist which she firmly grasped. I was expecting one thing, I got another. She grasped my wrist firmly, lifted my hand from her leg and said, "You weren't in the Men's room either time long enough to wash the hands that you just grabbed me with. Please keep them on your side of the table."
All of a sudden my quarters weren't good enough for her.
When I asked if she would like me to walk her to her car she gave me a look that made me feel real stupid for even asking such a thing. I'm not sure but I think she gave her telephone number to one of the tennis players when she left the bar presumably to visit the Laundromat and wash her jeans. |
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