The Hammock(s)

"How's it going Mr. Peterson?"

"It's a dog eat dog world, Woody and I'm wearing Milk Bone underwear."

Two weeks ago I attended a bachelorette party. My best friend lives in New York City, and her friends were coming up to visit her.

I essentially crashed a bachelorette party. Who wants to crash a wedding anyway?

I have been to a strip club before. Is it strange that I am a heterosexual woman, and I have only been to a female strip club?

I should add into the equation that I have a lot of male friends, and in order to hang out with them, and get a strange quirky experience I had to accompany them.

I will say a female strip club is everything you see in the movies. They are winding and grinding up on that pole. They are lap dancing for just twenty bucks more. But I have yet to see a champagne room. I am beginning to think it could just be a figment of men’s dirty, sexual fantasies because a lap dance or “special attention,” must mean she likes you, not your money.

But then again, the women’s strip clubs that I have been to were not exactly high-end. I doubt there was even champagne available as a beverage, much less to pour it down some naked woman’s body.

Marie sent me the information detailing the activities we would be doing during the weekend.

Kate: What is this Club Duvet VIP, fifty bucks a ticket? I have to pay fifty bucks for what? I am not made out of money, Marie.

Marie: We are attending a male strip club.

Kate: Oh, I guess if the money is going towards a good cause.

I immediately went to a site titled, Hunkmania.com, and bought us two VIP tickets.

The first night we dined on Thai food, and went to a ping-pong bar, which was strangely owned by Susan Sarandon, who was also present.

Kate: Dare me to go up to her and say I loved her in The Banger Sisters?

As I was saying this she shoved the exit door open, and a friend whispered to me that she had refused to take a picture with one of them, ahem.

We then left the ping-pong bar for a Korean karaoke bar. A girl and I walked in to check it out and they had all separate rooms to sing in, and they were open till six am. When I heard this information I became both elated and frightened by the future’s outcome.

When I woke up in hangover hell the next morning, I thought I could not go on like this. I would take the Bolt Bus home once I regained feeling in my legs, and would be home in five hours for my mother to put a damp washcloth on my face, feed me Nyquil, and watch chick flicks till the drug kicked in.

But wait… I couldn’t leave. Not without seeing cowboy hats and banana hammocks.

Marie and I reached Club Duvet, and bypassed the line because we did pay twenty extra dollars to be VIP. Horny, drunk women cursed us with abandon, and I felt like Beyonce entering some hot New York City invite-only club.

But I was entering a male strip club.

We were running about a half hour late, and arrived just in time for the show to start.

The room was solid white. The floors were white. The walls were white. The beds were white.

Yes, we viewed the show lying on beds.

As the first performer came on, Kid Rock’s “Cowboy,” belted in the background. He saddled up onto the stage and called upon people with the number one.

I would later learn these were the numbers given to the future brides who were suppose to join them on stage for their dance.

Our reigning bride began to whine. “When is my number going to be called? I want to go up there!”

We calmed her down by having one of the many strippers walking around come to “entertain” her.

He immediately slammed her face down on the bed, and began to hump her like a jackrabbit. He then turned her over and pulled up her dress, pulled down her dress, and ripped off his pants. He simulated every sexual innuendo the mind can conjure up. He finally picked her up, throwing her around like a doll, till she was lying toward the rear of his back, and he was screaming, “Put the money in my underwear.”

Marie and I laughed but only because we were nervous. We were lying at the head of the bed, and he began crawling towards us.

I used to think, that if I ever got married that I would definitely want to go to a male strip club. As he edged over in a gray thong with his butt crack hanging out, I started to think maybe Sunday teatime would suffice.

He sniffed up to Marie, and she immediately retorted, “I think I’m okay. I think we are both okay.”

He soon left and manhandled the other women in our group. This would happen four more times with four different strippers.

We all kneeled up on the bed to give the bride-to-be her toast with champagne (yes, they had champagne). As I handed Marie my glass, I realized I had something sticky on my tights.

Kate: Oh my god. There is something fucking stuck to my tights. I think its gum. It’s still wet. Who the hell would spit out their gum?

Marie: I didn’t have gum. Did you guys have gum?

Everyone around us answered no.

Marie: Kate, I bet the stripper accidentally spit it out when he was creeping up to us.

Disgusted does not even spell out my feelings as I took my fingers, and attempted to prod off the gooey, sticky remainder.

After the show ended at eleven, the bar was open to the public as a regular dance club. Men by the hundreds enveloped inside, and I began to question if these seemingly straight men knew that just a half hour prior men were dancing around in leopard print thongs and forcing fake hunkmania dollars down their underwear.

Kate: Did you know that just a few minutes before you got into this club that men were nearly naked humping my good friend on this bed right here for money?

He claimed he did not, and I saw him whisper to his male friend. They both looked at each other with bewilderment and some part of me was proud of myself for giving them this unforeseen knowledge.

We ditched the naked club for a regular bar in the Lower West Side. I stood outside waiting for the rest of our caravan to arrive.

When Marie’s cab finally pulled up I had made friends with both of the bouncers. By that time, we had been outside talking for about ten minutes, and they both were asking me if they could come party with us later.

During the night, I found myself outside talking to them a lot, and they both seemed to take a keen liking to me. The only reason I know this is because the dialogue began to take a turn.

Bouncer #1: Babygirl, where you staying tonight? (Bites lip) You think maybe you got a spot for me at your crib? (Bites lip again)

Bouncer #2: Well, you could always come back to my place and chill.

Bouncer #1: Nah, you don’t want to go back to his place. You want to hang with me, right cutie? I know how to do things right compared to this guy. (Wink)

Bouncer #2: Oh you think so? We’ll let the lady decide.

I stayed inside till they both were no longer on duty. Even though at points it was no better indoors.

A man approached me and said, “You owe me a Bud Light.”

I had no idea who he was. I just said the appropriate, “No, you owe me a Bud Light.”

For the first few hours it was cute. But by the tenth time he came up to me and said it, I was getting annoyed.

“You’ve been coming up to me for two hours. You are clearly not going to buy me a drink or you would have. Have a nice night.”

He tried to hand me his half finished beer, and I excused myself.

I joined Marie up at the bar, where she was talking to one of the bridesmaids. I turned to my left, and saw a guy sitting alone. He was my age, cute, glasses, nerdy, looked like an art student (by that I mean in touch with his feelings, and I later learned he was an art student), and so I began to talk to him.

We talked for about a half hour, (that’s what Marie tells me) until the bar was closing, and he had to go.

Nerdy Guy: Thanks for talking to me tonight. I was here all by myself, and it was really nice that you took the time to get to know me. Not many people do that in this city.

I patted his back, and wished him a good night. I probably could’ve corrupted him, but it just didn’t feel right.

When I woke up the next day, Marie reminded me of all the people I hit on that night. I was shocked but also extremely pleased with myself.

On the train ride home later that day, I sat back and thought, maybe it wasn’t the bars, and decided to give them one last chance.

The Beard

"What's the story Mr. Peterson?"

"The Bobbsey twins go the brewery. Let's cut to the happy ending."

The weeks leading up to my Uncle’s wedding, I was a hot mess. My mom who had a last minute work issue had to stay home instead of attending the wedding with me. She had sworn up and down, bought her own ticket to Sarasota, Florida to go with me, and even booked us our hotel room. Then all of a sudden, BAM, like usual, I found myself dateless.

I have been to five family weddings in the past five years, and have never had a real date. I am fully aware my mother should not be titled my “date,” but she was all I had.

I only found out she was standing me up the week before. There were pros and cons to this development.

Pro: I get to stay in a hotel room all by myself.

Con: I’m scared of the dark.

Pro: I can watch and rent any cheesy movie or television show I wanted.

Con: Is there someone hiding in the shadows?

I am the family member whose grandmother stays in their hotel room because I am single and everyone else is in a couple. I love my grannie more than I love myself but wouldn’t it be smarter for her to stay with a couple? Aren’t weddings meant for single people to get laid and people in a relationship to re-examine if they love each other as much as the two people getting hitched right in front of them?

“I’m sure Katie would love for her grannie to stay with her,” my family would say, nodding, and forcibly pushing me towards her. I would reply that I would love nothing more, except maybe to not be cockblocked at yet another wedding.

It’s not surprising that the one nuptial I wanted a date so terribly was my Uncle’s wedding to his boyfriend. I think there cannot be a better place to meet a hot, single, heterosexual male than at a gay wedding. That’s when it dawned on me, I had to find someone and quick.

I had passed the concept around to my friend Josh about him flying down to Sarasota with me. We eagerly toyed with the notion for hours, him excited to be going to a gay wedding because he was brought up by two gay parents, and me excited people might actually think I had a boyfriend for once. I knew my grannie would rather the possibility of that, than to stay in another hotel room with me again.

After I dropped him off I decided to look up rates for him to join me. The cheapest I could find was a five hundred dollar ticket roundtrip. I closed the computer, leap-frogged into the armchair next to me, and pouted.

I moped for over an hour when my mom turned to me and said, “Oh for god sakes it’s only money right? You have all that financial aid; you live at home, and have a job. Just buy the damn ticket, Katie.”

I turned quizzically to my mother who was making get-up motions with her hands, and then pointing at my laptop. I never thought she would encourage me to spend that much money. I crawled out of the chair, opened the page, and clicked, “Add to Cart."

I did, however, make her press the “Finish and Pay,” button, while I cursed nervously nearby.

I called Josh and we both screamed with pleasure. Neither of us had been on a vacation in a while, and this was just the break we needed from school and work.

When people found out I was taking Josh they all jumped to conclusions.

“You two are going to hook up.”

“Oh my god, something is totally going to happen.”

“Weddings are too romantic for nothing to transpire.”

They seemed to forget that he was one of my dearest friends. He was also my ex’s best friend, and one of my best friend’s ex-boyfriends. But the more I heard it, the more I became fearful about the trip. What if “Unchained Melody,” led us to groping each other in passion?

That Wednesday, after my Writing for Online Publication course, I stopped by Josh’s house to give him his confirms and e-tickets. We smoked a cigarette and joyfully jumped about at the thought of our soon to be tanned bodies hitting the pool, and singing karaoke at a bachelor-bachelor party at a gay bar.

When we finally arrived in Sarasota the next day, we sat down for only a matter of minutes before we were rushed to go to the bachelor party.

Men, who had no business doing so, were walking around shirtless. All of the good-looking bartenders were fully clothed, while the bird chests walked around like they owned the joint, spitting in corners, and snarling at customers. Not only was the scene a conundrum and hilarious, I knew this was only going to make my time more awkwardly special.

The big thrill was that there was going to be karaoke and a drag show. Josh was excited because he’s a singer in a band, and always loves showing off. He also loves nothing more than singing songs by George Michael, Wham!, Prince, Michael Jackson, and Meatloaf.

“I think I am going to sing ‘I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That),’ by Meatloaf. What do you think?”

I smiled, “Go get ‘em.”

My other girl cousins were married or had been married. For years, I seemed like a lost cause. I saw them all find love, and my entire family had been completely supportive and happy for them. I wanted that.

Josh strutted in front of the microphone, immediately began tapping his foot, and started scanning the audience with his pointer finger. He unbuttoned his shirt with his other hand to reveal just a bit of chest hair, and wailed into the mic.

My uncle wobbled up to me and slurred, “This guy is fucking great! He’s amazing.” We would find out soon after, that we believed my uncle and my cousin were rufied during the party.

His boyfriend leaned in, “Seriously Kate, where have you been hiding this guy?”

Soon after, my cousins, my other uncles and aunts, it seemed the whole bar were giving me the thumbs up.

Meatloaf was the closest I have ever gotten to boyfriend praise for someone who is not even my boyfriend.

The following morning I woke up in Josh’s double bed. I turned seeing his face, and jumped from his bed into mine. I looked at him angrily, and he just laughed.

“We had a few beers with your cousin and your uncle when we got back, and you passed out. At about four am, you wandered into my bed. You were just sleepwalking Kate, don’t worry.”

I do have a pension for sleepwalking, but I could not help thinking that maybe his performance of “Careless Whisper,” by George Michael had even impressed me.

As we watched two people exchange vows that love each other more than any two could even try, during a sunset service on the beach, it became clear through my whispered tears that I wanted that kind of happiness for myself. Josh and I looked at each other and smiled, we both knew it just couldn’t be with one another.

As we shuttled back to the hotel for the reception, we all sat in a circle around the pool, eating and chatting, dancing and singing, happy that such an occasion could even happen. If anything I was there to see two men be joined together because they loved each other above anyone else, and others’ irrational views had no relevance on their commitment.

After a few glasses of wine, I retired to my room for a breather. I started to cry as I usually do near the end of wedding receptions (blame the cocktails), but instead I had a rational thought, and decided not to do this anymore. I would not cry about my singlehood at another wedding.

I marched back outside, and my uncle shouted, “Kate, if you come back outside you have to do an embarrassing dance!”

I shook my tush to the left and the right, and tried to do the twist on the splashed on ground. This apparently was not good enough.

All of a sudden Josh yelled, “Kate look out!”

And just like that my new uncle had thrown me in the pool. I splattered to the surface of the four-foot water, and looked at Josh who was wearing all white. He was soaked from head to toe, and his top, now completely see-through.

“I tried to warn you,” he smirked and leaned down to hand me a towel.

“It’s okay. It felt good.”

A few weeks later, my mom pulled out my suitcase from the wedding. “It’s time we clean this out, you are such a dirty girl!”

She pulled out a plastic bag from the weekend duffel.

“Oh my god, I totally forgot…” I trailed off.

“Totally forgot what? What is in here? Katie Ann, there is mold all over these clothes!”

She threw the entire bag in the trash, which included a swimsuit, a dress, and my favorite gladiator sandals.

As my mom muttered obscenities taking my garbage down to the garage, I recalled telling Josh I didn’t want the towel, instead I chose to wade in the water for an hour, backstroking from one side to the other, forgoing the revelry and the champagne, for one last lap with myself.

The Others

"Hey, Norm, What's up?"

"My blood-alcohol level."

I noticed that it has become hard to pay attention to good-looking male suitors when there are too many creeps trolling around as well. Do two freaky weirdos cancel out a great guy?

I am almost sick of going to bars. It seems to not be leading in the direction I had once hoped. People have told me that they met their mate at a bar, but I do not seem to be following with that same luck.

Recently, I attended a concert, and it made me think, what are different venues that I could frequent in hopes to meet, "the one?" Suddenly, Bars were Out, and every other kind of adventure was In.

Concerts

Concerts are a great place to meet men. Even though I did not have as much luck with my man, (mainly because he was busy... I sadly presume) I did see other promising men fluttering around. Every man that was at that concert, looked like Ryan Gosling, and yet, I paid attention to none. Instead I pushed them out of the way, scoffed, and left with my tail between my legs, pouting.

If I had only noticed that all of the men looked like identical twins to my dream lover, I would have definitely put on a better game face towards them. The moral of this story is: if you find the lead singer of a band attractive, nine times out of ten his duplicate will be somewhere in the audience, and what's that old song lyric, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with?"

Weddings

I've heard that weddings are a great place to meet men. I have already been a bridesmaid six different times, and each time I have had no luck. However, there is enough word of mouth about there being results in finding a mate at weddings, and enough movies are based on the same prognosis.

I'd say whether I am putting on the inevitable ugly bridesmaid dress, or wearing a sexy number to be the stand-out, there are men attending and waiting there just to hit on yours truly.

Gym

People enjoy seeing people working on their fitness. I know watching a guy sweat, lift a weight heavier than my weight, and then towel off, sounds like a great reason to go to the gym.

If that is not reason enough, I can also lose some excess weight I gained from the bars, and become a sleeker version of myself.

Parks

A good amount of men love being outdoors. You can pass any park on a Sunday afternoon, and catch men playing volleyball, baseball, basketball, and soccer. My favorite recreation spot is Nottoway Park in Vienna, Virginia. My friends and I on a lazy Sunday will find ourselves driving by this park, and stalling in the lot, just watching at least twenty men, some with their shirts off jumping, running, and battling it out for a leather sphere that goes in a net right above their heads.

The concept is simple, and the view can make for a great way to pass the time. Next time, maybe we'll get out of the car.

School

Just walking around George Mason's campus I see a number of single men. I know most long-term couples say they met in college, and some people are even high school sweethearts. School is the best venue to meet a date at. There are many opportunities to meet people, whether it be in class, walking around, or joining a club.

The point of joining clubs at school is to meet new people, and get a new experience. I might join a club tomorrow, and see where that experience takes me.

There are so many other places to meet men. I am going to personally go out tomorrow and go to the gym, sign up for a club, and play some soccer outside. I'll be damned if, "the man," isn't going to hold me down. If you can think of other spots to find a mate leave them in the comment section under this blog.

Coming up next.... blogs about a Gay Wedding, and a Male Strip Club. Come back soon?

The Third Wheel

"How's life treating you Norm?"

"Like it caught me sleeping with its wife."

People say alcohol brings out the truth. But tonight, I am going to examine a situation where no alcohol was involved. A night where I really wanted to meet a man, one man in particular, and have things finally, for once, go my way.

A few weeks ago, I went to a concert in DC. But this was not just any concert to me. Ryan Gosling, an actor I would like to assume everyone knows, but I guess I should say he was nominated for an Oscar for Half Nelson. But most women and maybe some men, remember him rain-stained, shirtless, and slamming Rachel McAdams into the wall in The Notebook.

Without knowing anything about him, save for the fact that for a year I religiously stalked him over the Internet, I knew that he was my one true love.

I began following his band (Dean Man’s Bones), which can be perceived as slightly underground, earlier in the year. When he announced they would be touring, that day I set my alarm for 10:30 am, and bought two tickets.

I told no one. For months, held it in during conversations. “Oh my boyfriend just bought me a diamond ring!” “This guy I’m hooking up with looks so hot naked!” “I’m pregnant… with twins!”

I could’ve told them. I could have easily rained on their parade. I was about to come face-to-face with the man that would learn to love me in mere minutes, and our happiness would shine all over US Weekly. People would ask: Why her? And he would tell them: “I just knew when I saw her standing out in the damp, freezing weather, screaming my name, over the other 14 year olds, that she was the one.”

When my female friends asked why I didn’t invite them to go my answer was simple. “You are too good-looking. I would never ask you to go.”

My male friend accompanied me, along with a girl I was trying to set him up with. I felt, that this may be all right, but I still forced her to sign a handwritten note vowing not to even look, smile, or lean in his direction, and also enforced a strict dress code.

I could be longwinded. Tell you how I had a severe anxiety attack on the drive to DC. How it felt like hours getting there. How Josh (my friend) turned to me and said, “You are having an anxiety attack about someone you are not even going to meet.”

I huffed. How dare he assume such absurdity. I had never been more determined of anything in my life.

After Josh nearly force-fed me a Xanax, we were suddenly standing outside of a synagogue. And there lies the no alcohol clause for the evening. I assumed taking tequila shooters with God would be a no-no.

We arrived late, and had to sit on the balcony. The entire place was packed. Packed with women. Hot women. The opening act was a talent show based on different performers around the DC area. I decided to just lay back in my seat, and take deep breaths, waiting to give all my energy to my Ryan.

I also had a couple obstructing my view. Just when I thought the beginning of the show was over, I stood up to gaze down at the stage, and I saw that one of the opening acts was a troupe of belly dancers.

I immediately turned to Emily and Josh, and they both sighed. “We saw it already. We didn’t want to tell you. Don’t let it discourage you.” My mind started racing, questioning what m

y purpose for even coming to this atrocity was. He was going to bang one of those belly dancers, if he hadn’t already.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he won’t want to find a cute brunette after the show,” Emily said squeezing my arm. Reality began to set in, and even I knew I would choose to go home with the belly dancer.

The show started, and as his left boot clipped the side of the stage my heart started fluttering. I realized I hadn’t been this excited in a while. I leaned my body into the pew in front of me, in an effort to keep my balance from not tumbling off the balcony, and belly flopping into the drum set.

From what I recall I gawked, stared, panted, rubbed my sweaty hands on my pants, and played musical chairs with Emily and Josh to get a less obstructed view. The couple I had mentioned had decided to stand holding each other, back to back, and it completely left me devoid of any observation. Accidentally, I said loudly, “That’s great.”

Creepy, weirdo couple: Oh, are we blocking your view?

Normally, I am not intentionally rude. I would typically stand there, and watch the concert between the middle of their two heads, and bitch about it endlessly the whole car ride home. Tonight was not that night, and I told them affirmatively, that they were in fact in my way.

By the final song, I was more in love than ever, and knew I had to get out of there. My mind was racing, he smokes, what if he wants to go outside and have a quick cigarette after this? I quickly bum rushed the emergency exit door as people stood clapping, leaving Emily and Josh far behind. I circled around the building and found nothing. I circled again, and I only found Josh and Emily. I looked at them, and I was disappointed.

I guess as I was running around the building I barely noticed that it was pouring rain, and what must have been thirty-degree temperature. None of us had coats or umbrellas, and I began to hear them discuss the option of getting food.

Before the concert, I had made them both swear that we could stay till two am if need be, and suddenly, my stalkerish plans were being rubbed out in favor of a real hook-up.

They wanted to get food together. Ryan did not want to get food with me. They were actually hitting it off, and I had a pretty good idea who Ryan was hitting it off with.

As they both stated how cold they were, and how food would be an excellent way to end the evening, I realized they were right.

I was cold and hungry.

As we passed at least twenty girls holding court outside with their umbrellas and jackets, giggling to each other, holding pens and cds, anxious and exhilarated by the idea of just a close-up glimpse of Ryan, and I realized I was them. I just forgot a coat and an umbrella.

The Ninja

"What's going on Mr. Peterson?"

"The question is what's going in Mr. Peterson? A beer please, Woody."

Location: Fast Eddies... AHHHH....

Time: 10:30 PM

I was visiting my friend who was guest bartending at Fast Eddies when a man approached me. He was medium height, solidly built Asian man with a ponytail. I became intrigued by this only because I haven't seen that since the Karate Kid movies. My pension for awkward men and awkward scenarios only made this encounter more enticing.

Ponytail: Can I play the game behind you?

He was pointing to the fake computer that was on the bar that I was sitting in front of. People come out to bars now, not to socialize, but to sit in a dark corner, and play texas hold 'em. They also have beer pong on there, which makes me debate... why not just go home, play the real thing, and get drunk the old fashioned way? Why come to a bar to play a drinking game by yourself, on a computer, and pay ten times more for beer?

Ponytail: I think you can just move it to the side, and I can stand to the side of you. You don't even have to give me your seat.

I was trying to be overly cordial, and I began begging him to take my chair. I was hopping in and out of my bar stool. He refused to make me move, and so I began to twist the computer over. He took his place to the side of me, and as I was looking at him I did not notice the computer rotate into my full beer, and onto my crotch.

This was my second beer. I had been there less than a half hour. And I was wearing light colored jeans.

When it looks like you peed your pants, I think that just screams going home solo.