The Dick

"How's it going Mr. Peterson?"

"Poor."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No, I mean pour."

Location: New York City, NY. Multiple bars on the Lower East Side, mainly a joint called, Tonic.

Time: Around 11 pm till 4 am.

Situation: I was visiting my best friend in New York City. She had just started at Columbia’s grad school, and I had just started grad school, so we thought what better way to celebrate that fact than going out and getting plastered.

I arrived via Boltbus on a Thursday afternoon, and got there with my hopes brimming that it was going to be a great weekend. Marie opened the door to her dad’s apartment, and there she was being mauled with homework. I instantly realized this was going to cause a dent in our fun, and gave her a pouty face.

Marie: Kate, what do you expect from me? I really need to get this shit done. I didn’t know I was going to have all of this shit.

Kate: I’m not worried, you’ll get it done, and then we’ll go have fun. While you do that, I’ll look up different places we can have dinner.

I smiled, and she frowned. She wanted me out of there, but my bus didn’t leave till Sunday. She was officially stuck with me.

The night we went out, we had dinner first at this little hole in the wall we always go to when I come to town. I love it because it’s unpretentious but still has a young following of hot executives, but no one really hits on anyone while they’re eating. So, in that scheme of things, it was probably a waste of time. But in the, I wanted to eat something fatty that would soak up the beer I was going to drink later that night, it made perfect sense.

The bar is relatively small, compacted, cramped (any word that sounds uncomfortable), and has about 80 people standing around it. It’s not the most logical of places. Her cousin, Matt met us up there, and we had a few drinks and left.

We headed back towards Marie’s house, and stopped at Tonic. We had been there a few years earlier. The first time this herd of men was taking up the dance floor, and we were being attacked on all ends of the spectrum. I remember watching my friend take it to the ground with her dance move, and the other just bent over swaying her butt back and forth. A man I was dancing with announced they all had fake ids, were in from some place in Jersey, and then began to jackrabbit me.

Like he was having a seizure, he banged into me so hard, for so long, I remember waking up and wondering how I stood there for one full song, and let that happen. I also questioned what kind of person I was after that, and I came up with that I was a pervert.

I decided this time we went to Tonic it would be different. No jackrabbit, maybe no dancing with strangers, just drinks with friends and laughs.

Just as I was beginning to like this place again, was dancing around to “Beautiful,” by Akon, two men approached.

Let me bottom line this: Two very creepy men. So creepy that I have never seen anyone look more evil in his or her eyes. I may be ridiculous, but I am saying this as fact. They smelled, had sinister smiles, too touchy off the bat, and I just wanted them to get the fuck away from us.

They both looked at me, and I gave a look that yelled, “Get away from us! You are disgusting,” so they immediately approached Marie. She’s nicer, more fun, flirtier, and doesn’t really give a shit.

They hit on her for a while, we’d leave a room, and they’d follow. We thought we lost them, they’d reappear putting their arms all over Marie, and she’d just smile while giving me the woman’s universal “help” look.

I needed a cigarette, and to get away from these douche bags for a minute. I walked outside, and the bouncer told me to walk around to the side to light up. I walked around, and saw some of Dick’s friends. I later named the leader of the pack, Dick, which you will see right now.

Friend #1: (extremely thick Russian accent) Your friend, likes our friend.

I had my back turned, and I yanked around, evil eyeing him for a few moments. This forced me into a diatribe, which lasted a few minutes on how that would never be the case.

Friend #2: Oh yes, she will be coming home with him tonight.

Who were these guys? I once again, strongly negated.

Friend #1: No, no, she wants to eat his dick.

As I stood I realized I had never met such a disgusting trifecta of men.

Friend #2: Yes, we can tell, she does. She wants it bad.

Friend #1: Yes, she will eat a dick, yes.

I let them know that we do not "eat" dick in the good ol' US of A.

Friend #2: Oh she’s feisty, do you like doing that too sweetheart?

As I hurriedly walked inside, I turned to the bouncer. He must have been 6’6, 350 pounds, maybe more, and he was just all around frightening.

Kate: Those guys over there are saying that my friend wants to give their friend a blowjob, and it’s totally inappropriate.

At first, I didn’t think he was going to take me seriously. He looked like the kind of guy that didn’t even have time for what I was saying, and maybe wasn’t listening.

Bouncer: Excuse me? What guys? Where?

He was pissed, like scary pissed, like breathing out of your nose with fire pissed.

Kate: Uh, those guys over there, and there are two inside. They are just being completely offensive.

Bouncer: They’ll be taken care of.

Kate: Oh, it’s not such a big deal. I guess they could’ve been joking. It’s okay.

Bouncer: No, I will take care of them. Go have fun.

I walked inside and saw Marie talking to Dick. I turned to him and let him know that I thought his friends were actually being beat to death outside, and he ran out the back door.

I never saw any of those guys again, but I did make a prognosis in my mind of what happened. The bouncer took them all outside, put them in a line, cut their penises off, and threw them in the dumpster.

When I woke up the next morning, I packed up all my stuff, hugged Marie good-bye, and lugged all of my four bags to the bus stop.

I reached my seat, sat down, looked out the window, and smiled. It was the first time I had ever missed Virginia men.

The Worker

"What's going on Mr. Peterson?"

"A flashing sign in my gut that says, 'Insert beer here.'"

Location: Bridges Bar, Fairfax, VA. This bar houses multiple pool tables, but is not a billiard bar. It also has I would say a 20x20 dance floor that is frequented by perverted guys standing in the corner salivating, and one very random ballroom dancer.

Time: 11:45 pm. These will be the normal times because I am a server, and I close my shifts.

Situation: A few guy friends from work asked if I wanted to meet them up there when I finished up.

When I arrive, I look all over for these guys, who are all single, and this leads me straight to the dance floor. There they all are lining the walls of the makeshift floor, bobbing their heads, maybe putting their hands in the air and tipping them back and forth, and in some strange points in the music humping the air even though there is no one near them for five feet.

The scene is Latin men, Asian men, white men, and black men, all standing against the wall. They are all just waiting to make their move, for some girl stupid enough to gyrate their hips near enough to them, thus creating an opening, and boom! They are getting their penises grinded on by a huge butt or a girl seductively taking it to the ground, only to sadly bring it back up again.

This is how American women dance. This might even be how I dance, if I’ve had say, ten beers in me. But tonight, I’ve had one, and might have a second, but that seems pretty tough at the moment.

I find my space next to the wall, and I become these men. Standing there, ogling any big boobed, big assed person that passes me by. And I even push my friends into them.

I am continuing the voyeuristic part of this evening, and for a while I might be the leading contributor.

Totally forgetting about my own personal manhunt, I light cigarettes, and swig beers, laughing, and almost becoming one of the boys. The polar opposite of what I am suppose to be doing here. That is when I get a tap on my shoulder.

A man I do not recognize, looks me directly in the eye, and says: Kate?

Kate: Hi, yeah, it’s me.

I looked at him quizzically for some time, and had no recollection of who this person was.

He then says: It’s me, Carl (this is not his real name, you’ll know why I changed it shortly).

Kate: Carl? Carl! Oh my god. You look so different I didn’t even recognize you!

Just then I look back, and see my guy friends giggling. They don’t know what I know, and they think this man has come to hit on me. Little do they know, that it’s a no.

Carl: Yeah it’s been so long. I think the last time I saw you was at the Fairfax Fair. What have you been up to?

Kate: You’re right it was! That was years ago though. Nothing really, I just started school again, and I’m pretty nervous/excited about that. What about you? Do you have a job?

Carl: Well, I wouldn’t call it a job. But it gets me by.

Kate: You sell pot, don’t you?

Sidenote: The way I know this is because Carl was always a stoner. We went to middle school together, and he had always been like that. And normally people grow out of their childhood ways, but I knew different with him.

He was different.

But I try my best not to judge. Afterall, I never judged my dad for having a pot plant next to my playroom when I was a little girl. I could not possibly start now.

Carl: Heh, yeah I dabble in this and that. But I hope to get my dream job real soon.

Kate: And what is that?

Carl: I’ve always wanted to be a tow truck driver. Right on, right?

Kate: What? All tow truck drivers are such assholes!

This conversation continued for a few minutes. Basically us just going back and forth about what towing companies were rude, and employing possible killers. This conversation while I swayed next to the wall on the dance floor, and my guy friends attempted to listen, but the music was too loud.

He finally walked away, and I was relieved. I could go back to my predatory gaze on the dance floor. But of course, the men insisted on hearing about it.

Web: Who was that?

Bryan: He was totally hitting on you. You should try to slay.

That needs a sidenote: people at my work have their own strange language. Slay means sex.

And I find it funny, even though it’s not, and I am older than most of them, so admitting I laugh at it takes away any street cred I have, and also some of the feminist objections I would normally have to the meaning of the word.

Kate: Guys, you don’t understand. It was most certainly not like that, and it never will be.

Web: You never give people a chance!

Bryan: Just do it, stop being so picky. He was a good-looking dude.

Kate: You didn’t hear our conversation, and you don’t know who he is. And I hate to judge people, and shouldn’t tell you my objections.

Web: Come on Kate, just out with it.

Kate: I knew him from grade school, and I have it on very good authority that his mother fucked her cousin, and made Carl. Are you happy now?

Web: Wait, hold up! Come onnn, you're just fucking with us. Are you saying Carl’s inbred?

Bryan: I don’t care what you say; you should still go home with that guy tonight and make it a smash task.

Like I said, their own language. And I didn’t end up doing any of the above, and I think my mom would be very proud of me for that fact.

The Abstinent

"What's new Normie?"

"Terrorists, Sam. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."

I have been single for five years. The first two were voluntary. I had just gotten out of a tumultuous relationship, that both exhausted me, and made me realize the only relationship worth having is a special one. The past three years I have bounced around with different men, and have been infatuated with all of them for an elongated amount of time. My friends make fun of my “crushing,” because it becomes a full-fledged sport or hobby that I have to win at every challenge. The problem is, I very rarely win, and end up walking away from the situation with my tail between my legs. It would make sense if I one day decided to stop acting in this obsessive, over-analyzing, loving, angry, manipulative, endearing (only to myself) way, however, I am a person of pattern. And I believe that if any person should show a pattern, they most likely will follow that pattern until it is forced into breaking or they die.

I decided to write this blog about going out and attempting to give any lame-ass I see a chance. People call me picky, that I have a type, and that I will never allow myself to be happy. But don’t most people know what they want, and go after it? And it has always made me physically nauseous to look at couples that are just with each other so they do not have to be alone, or because they were waiting for someone better to come along. What’s the use? What’s the point? But I suppose I am getting older, and while I am still in my “younger” years I should take advantage of being the girl that wears only a tight skirt and pasties to the bar, and who inevitably goes home with whoever or whatever is left at last call.

I don’t know about all that. But for people that think I don’t put myself out there, and try new things, or that I am unwilling to give any man a chance. You asked for it, and here’s to you.

Location: Fast Eddies Bar and Grille (Might have added the Bar and Grille to make it sound nicer than it actually is, it is a dive billiard pool hall across the street from my work)

Time: 12:00 AM. Around this time is normally when any man with any shred of decency has already left. I would say most likely home to their wife or girlfriend.

Situation: I arrive with my friends, Mel, a girl that bartends where I work, and my friend, Webster, a cook from our work, and we sit at the bar. We sit for a long time chitchatting about past failed relationships, and how Web is a nice guy and deserves a nice girl. This is a common theme when the three of us go to the bar together, and if Mel and I are drinking wine, we most likely end up crying. It is kind of sad that nice guys always finish last, but not sad enough that I am willing to be going home with Webster or probably any nice guy tonight. I think that’s why we were crying, why can’t we just like the nice guy? Why is it always the disgruntled loner who I know I will never make completely happy? Anyway, I digress.

The end of the night is nearing, and it seems my newfound courage is coming up with not even one result. Just as I begin to think about this, a man stumbles into my barstool, and then into my face. He keeps his entire body half onto my barstool, and half on the ground. He tells us his name is Andrew, and continues to close talk to me the remainder of the time we are there. At first he talks to everyone but me, even though his facial stubble is touching my face. He greets Mel, tries to have a weird exchange with Web, and then finally turns to me.

Andrew (overtly drunk, bad breathed, slightly good-looking but this is only casually observed and then intentionally overlooked because I notice he is there alone): “I hate sex.”

Kate: “Excuse me? Who hates sex?”

Mel: “Kate loves sex, don’t you? You should tell him how much you love it.”

Kate: “Mel that is really unnecessary, and you are being such a bitch right now.”

Andrew: “You like to have sex? I guess I do too. But only without a condom, no way else, that’s the good shit.”

Kate: “Wow, that’s a good call. I bet you’re right.”

Mel: “Hey Andrew, do you have a ride home? I bet Kate would be willing to give you a ride.”

Kate: “You are so inappropriate. I am not even going your way, I’m sorry.”

Andrew: “I didn’t even tell you where I live.”

Kate: “I’m not going that way. I just know.”

Web: “Kate, you don’t have to drive me home, you can just take Andrew here.”

Kate: “You are both ridiculous. Nice meeting you Andrew, I think your cab is here.”

By some stroke of luck, they had cut him off, called him a cab, and it was outside waiting for him. Until next time Andrew.