Wading in the Velvet Sea

The most stunning thing about this Freaker is that he could have been cloned from the original Freaker. As if he were the Dolly of cloned Freakers. Let’s just say both men had probably spent a bit of time with Jose Canseco in a bathroom stall. I’m going to take the high road here and say last weekend’s Freaker probably wasn’t ignoring the repeated “We’re OK, thanks though,” but rather couldn’t hear them, due to the fact that his shoulder muscles covered his ears. So near as I could tell, this guy’s idea of a come-on line was, “Wanna feel my bicep?” I say this not to humorously go over the top, but because he kept rolling up his sleeves and flexing, clearly saying, “Wanna feel my bicep?”

So there are two girls being subjected to this. My sense of chivalry’s kicking in, although I’m simultaneously pre-determining any lines that shouldn’t be crossed lest I get a severe ass-whupping upon the honest retelling of the tell to The Girl the following day. So I’m doing a to do/to not do list in my head. Went a little something like this:

To Do: Make sure the girls are OK.
To Not Do: Make sure they are OK by checking the status of their nipples.

To Do: Offer them an out if needed.
To Not Do: Offer them a room number in a local Red Roof Inn as said out.

To Do: Give them a person to talk to until Bicep Boy moves on.
To Not Do: Give them a thigh each to sit on while talking to me.

To Do: Dance with them if they wanna dance.
To Not Do: Get any classification of freak on whatsoever.

So the lesson, as always, is that I’m a guy, but I’m a whipped guy. So there.

So I go over, and ask the one currently not grimacing while touching The Freaker’s deltoids if she’s OK. “Um, not at all,” she says. So I pull her over, tell her I’ve been watching her for a while, and by saying so instantly seem like a stalker, so go me. (It’s not my fault, damnit. I never do this “talking to girls in bars” thing. Ever. I have all the rhetorical subtlety of a wrecking ball.) Luckily, she’s so afraid that the Freaker’s gonna make her feel his quad muscles that my comment goes largely unnoticed. She ascertains that I probably won’t ask her to grope me anytime soon, and grabs her friend from the Freaker, and since all Freakers have ADD, he soon forgets about the two girls and moves on like a confused puppy. A puppy with big honkin’ shoulders.

A few minutes later, I realize that I’ve successfully pulled two women in a bar away from another guy and am charming the livin’ hell out of them. Which is all fie and good except for the fact that I have a freakin’ girlfriend. Not that I minded having the girlfriend, and not that I wished I had the chance to get with either of these women, but it just goes to show that whole “women like guys who are taken” thing. It’s unreal. Then again, why did I go over to them in the first place? Because I wasn’t trying to do anything but pry them away from the second coming’ of Ahnald. No agenda. Nothing to lose. No fear. They could say things like, “You look like the doctor from ER,” and I could say, “George Clooney? Aww, thanks!” And they’d laugh, and say no, Anthony Edwards is cute, which is a bald-faced lie, right up there with “Oh, if I were Rachel, I’d totally go for Ross!” Lies lies lies lies.

I also didn’t really take into account either one of them would actually find me attractive while sippin’ my beer either, so it was a bit of a shock to hear one of them say, “You’d be great for my friend here.” Which, by the way, is one of the worst things you can say in a newly form triumvirate. It’s up there with, “Can you tell she’s got the clap? Be honest,” and “Are you wearing a flak jacket? Because the last time my husband found me talking to a guy in the bar…” It doesn’t go over well. By telling me she thought I should get with her friend, it instantly put the two of us on the spot. Not good times. Up there with the fact that the band was now playing Maroon 5. Just an awful 30 seconds.

So I try to sidestep the statement: “Nah…you don’t know me. I could have bodies stacked up in my basement.”

“No way! You’re so nice and fun. You’re really cool!”

“I’m glad you think so. My girlfriend thinks so as well.”

Silence. Frowns from both. I’d love to say I wasn’t getting a little thrill out of this, but I can’t lie. Well, I _can_ lie, just not about this, because this makes me sound like a desirable man-beast and I’d like to perpetuate this falsehood as much as possible. Grrr, baby, very grrr.

So this moment of awkwardness passes, and their sense of “I can’t believe he tried to get us away from FreakBoy without any agenda” passed about five minutes later. That’s the beauty of being me sometimes. By simply acting with the slightest sense of decency, I’m catapaulted miles above most penis-carrying people in the eyes of women. It’s a good thing. That’s why I encourage as much awful male activity possible short of physical violence. And actually, physical violence is OK, so long as it’s the men inflicting it upon one another. For instance, I have no problem with two guys trying to impress women by re-enacting their favorite fight scenes from “Bloodsport”. I’m OK with that.

Now that the girlfriend this was out in the open, I was in a unique position. One I’d never really been in before. I was with two women in a bar without the need to indulge meaningless BS. It was incredible. Usually, when meeting someone, you have to feign interest in crap you simply couldn’t care less about. Women pretend that they care about the music guys like, men have to pretend they care about chick crap like “feelings”, etc. But I wasn’t trying to get anything, and as such, could pretty much say whatever I felt. Michelle asked me what I did professionally. “Porn star,” I replied. They asked me who I voted for in the election. (Bwa?) I knew that would hate it if I said Kerry, but I didn’t have to lie, and after they groaned, I said, “Whatevs, you both want to lick me and you know it.”

Joy pointed out that she was there because the keyboardist onstage eight feet away was her ex. Which gave this whole scene a sudden “Reality Bites” vibe to it. I was hoping he wouldn’t catch her talking to me and break out into “Kiss Off” by the Violent Femmes. Then again, this guy looked not so much like Ethan Hawke as Nick Carter, so I felt more at ease. So I asked Joy if she dated this guy before or after he beat the holy hell out of Paris Hilton. She didn’t get the joke. Oh well. I laughed. And really, that’s all that matters.

The best part of all this had to be the birthday girl coming by every half hour, getting progressively drunker. English is already her second language, but I think it was roughly her fifth by the time my two companions left. On the last pass, I asked her if she was drunk.

“I think so,” she replied.

“Well, there’s an easy test to find out.”

“OK, what is it?”

“Do I look good to you?”

“Hell yes.”

“Let’s get you some water.”

So yea, all in all an interesting night, given my low expectations for it. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t go out more. Had I known how powerfully my sexy self affected the fairer sex, I would have shielded myself from public view. OK, that’s a lie, but it was fun to type. And I believe in self-actualization, even if I’ll always resemble Anthony Edwards instead of George Clooney.

And if stories like this do nothing than force my girl to start wearing obscenely low-cut shirts to mark her territory when we go out together, well, that’s just a future I’ll have to deal with, I guess.