Not Tonight

"I'll have a Dos Equis and a shot of Grand Marnier."

Sip one, gulp the other. Waves of warmth. Your cheeks flush. Fingers, once stiff and cold, are now hot and nimble. Eyes flicker around the bar. Glass chandeliers hover. He says they look like upside-down bouquets.

***

"Two more, baby."

Slip off your barstool to find the bathroom. Push through the stall door, unzipping. Sit. Cleavage check. Bikini line inspection. Flush. Ice-cold water and rose-scented soap.

***

"Sure, yeah, another round."

Go outside. (Alone. He doesn't smoke.) Light up, look back through the window. He's tall, sexy, smart. No reason not to go home with him.

Except that tonight you just don't feel like it. He catches your eyes in a quick stare. He looks like a photograph; centered through the window frame, perched on his barstool, glass in hand, smiling.

That's what it is. Too perfect.

No rough edges.

No twists and turns.

***

I don't like them crazy. Just a little bit wicked.

Meow

Phew.

I feel like I've been working nonstop for a week straight. Oh wait, I have. I barely have the energy to update this blog tonight, but I figure if I didn't, D might think I was dead or something. I haven't talked to her since last weekend when she ditched me at the bar and ran off with Steve.

You know, which reminds me. Are there any sweet, attractive, psychiatrically healthy men out there that want to meet my girl, D? And I mean completely psychiatrically healthy. Because her last man was a neurotic freak, and, if I don't do something, she could be headed down that same road again.

Any takers? Come on, she's a real kitten in the sack.

Hardy Har

FACT: I am not a big drinker. While it's essential that I possess the ability to cocktail every night of the week, I don't necessarily drink a whole lot.

FACT: My gay friend, Daniel is a busy restauranteur with a strong penchant for champagne, liqueurs, beer, vodka, and anything else containing alcohol. His daily drinking habits are impressive.

FACT: When Daniel and I go out for drinks, I allow myself to keep up with him. We generally go to gay bars, which are safe places for me when I want to let my hair down a little. Daniel is a caring individual, who would never allow me to make bad decisions. Unless, of course, he thought it was really funny.

FACT: I woke up Monday morning with a girl's number in my pocket.

FACT: I am not gay.

FACT: I'm pissed off at Daniel this week.

Small Town

Well, that backfired.

Why is this city so goddamn small? How is it that you can't go anywhere anymore without running into anyone?

Drunkfest

Look, I said it because I believe that the kind of car a guy drives is important. It determines whether he's someone I spend one night with or someone I spend one year with. I was with my ex-boyfriend for three years, and he had three nice cars. Coincidence? No.

I'm worth about $200K.

Anyway, onto another topic. It's becoming glaringly obvious that D needs to get totally plastered with me. We've been hanging out a lot since she expelled the parasite, but haven't done the traditional drunkfest that occurs between best friends after one of them suffers a breakup.

I'm talking about shot-for-shot until the 1.75 of whiskey is empty. I'm talking about half a case of wine gone, getting 86'd from the bar, holding each other up as we wait for a cab, sobbing into one another's hair.

You've gotta purge that shit every once in a while. And D's just a bit pent up at the moment.

No Saturns

Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time.

black-haired beauty in black and yellow hoodie - m4w - 26

you were walking towards the parking lot yesterday, I was stopped at the light. you definitely saw me: brown hair, aviator sunglasses in a blue saturn. I smiled at you but you were too shy to smile back. I would love to take you out for coffee.

That was definitely me, leaving the bar. But guess what, sweetie. I wasn't too shy to smile back; I just wasn't interested. See, you were cute and all, but let's face it: you drive a Saturn.

Smooth Operator

I got a little backed up with work last week and totally slacked off on my Missed Connections. This shit is like a pathetic, daily tabloid. I love it.

My fave from last week:

Jag girl at Sally's

I was serious when I asked if I could take you out after I bought the shot from you. Me: tall guy in blue by the front window. Hope to hear from you.

Writing a Missed Connection to the SHOT GIRL at SALLY'S because you were too drunk that night (especially after that SHOT) to follow up on whatever genius line you delivered as you slapped a one dollar tip in her hand is sooo smooth.

Godspeed, Brent or Brandon or Brody or whatever the fuck your name probably is. I'm sure she's just too busy with work to email you back.

Has the whole world gone crazy?

God damn, I've been running all week trying to track down some anti-psychotic anti-anxiety meds for Steve, with little luck. My usual channels are cut off right now for some fucking reason, so I'm gonna have to get creative with this job.

The good news is, I think I've got an ace up my sleeve. When you're livelihood depends on getting things that cannot easily be gotten, you always find a way.

Speaking of total nutjobs, Amber is moving in with her ex-boyfriend. While some may view this as a harmless act of a friend helping out a friend (don't get me wrong, I see that part) I'm suspicious of Rich's other motives. Amber, dear, you're panting and sweating all over your posts--Already! And how far are we into your little Man Ban?--making comments about how the next guy to lay you will be a puddle of spent mess when you're done with him. Why do you think Rich is so eager to have you slinking around his house in your jammies? He's banking on the fact that, one night, you come home just a little more than tipsy.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: all men are basically the same. They're all born to do two things: making women want to procreate with them, and then procreating. There are, of course, exceptions to the rule, so spare me the Ghandi/Mandela/homosexual speech, but there is obvious truth to what I'm saying.

Amber is Just Jealous