It had been five months since my most recent successful encounter with a vagina, and I had started to feel like a sailor adrift in the middle of a vast and frigid ocean. The do-it-yourself kit that every man inherits had long since ceased to provide more than acutely temporary relief from the insufferable female famine. If a moose using a walker had ambled into the bar I would probably have offered to buy it a drink. But for some unknown reason all the usual approaches were falling flat.
The tall redhead simply got up and left the minute I said “hello.” It took about fifteen minutes for me to build up the courage to tell the curvaceous brunette she was the most exquisite woman this side of the Mississippi River – and about fifteen seconds for her to say she wouldn’t be interested if I were the last man left this side of the Mississippi River. A voluptuous Latina with boobs the size of coconuts listened politely to my “Haven’t I seen you here before?” query, then shook her black curls and sent me scurrying back to the safety of the one friend who had remained ten minutes after last call.
“Shit,” I said. “Looks like I’m going to sleep alone again.”
Ted nodded toward a dark corner as a lady stood up and headed toward the bathroom, leaving her companion sipping a glass nearly devoid of white wine. “Go-fur-it,” he said. He was the only guy I knew who could slur a three-word sentence. “She’s about the only one you haven’t hit on.”
“Nothing’s working tonight. Is there a horn growing out of my forehead or something?”
He pretended to look, lingering inches in front of my face just long enough for me to notice how bloodshot his eyes had become. “Not that I can tell. But I don’t have that, whatchacallit, female institution.” Some designated driver. I had already resigned myself to sharing a cab back to his house and surfing on the couch.
“What should I say?”
“What do you usually say?”
“Usual isn’t working.”
“Then say something unusual.”
Damn if I could refute that logic. He kicked the leg of my chair. “Get the hell over there before the pretty one comes back!” he commanded, and the bartender twenty feet away glowered at him the way my mother looked at me when I was twelve and didn’t make my bed.
“She won’t be interested.” I had watched a parade of young men attempt to strike up a conversation and march back to their own tables with their balls neatly tucked inside their pants.
“Nothing adventured, nothing engrained,” he offered.
I chugged the rest of my beer. “What the hell,” I said, followed half way across the room by “I hate my life.” I now had about ten seconds to decide how to start the conversation. “Hello”? Oh right, very original! “May I sit down?” Cool, very assertive, brimming with self-confidence. “I really like your hair.” Oh Christ, that one didn’t even work on my best nights. She acknowledged my arrival with an icy stare. “What have you got,” she might as well have said, “that the others didn’t?” I took the empty chair, pulled it up real close, and whispered in her ear. “I don’t know if I can trust you with my penis.”
Where in the hell that came from, I’ll never know. Once the words had escaped my mouth, I knew I was in for a shitload of trouble. I flinched in anticipation of a slap across the face. Or a vigorous kick to the shin. Then at least I could go home in peace, content that I had left no linguistic stone unturned.
She put her hands in front of her, palms about three inches apart. “I’m not sure I would notice if you did.”
Okay, this was different. I decided to rise to the challenge. “I really love blondes,” I countered. “What’s your natural hair color?”
It was too dark to see a twinkle in her eye, but her little nose hovered just a bit closer to mine. “When was the last time you had any hair?” My scalp itched, but this was no time to scratch.
“I’ve got it where it counts,” I said, “not that you’d be able to see it without your glasses.”
“I was about to take them off anyway.” She put them carefully on the table. “The glare from whatever that is behind your forehead is blinding me.”
Damn if she wasn’t cute without the glasses. Tiny would-be dimples embellished tranquil skin, compelling eyelashes, and rose-colored lips. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know. Would it ruin your credit?”
I took a picture of Benjamin Franklin out of my wallet and slapped the bill on the table. “I think this will buy more than you can handle.”
“You have no idea what I can handle, sailor.”
“Hopefully more than three inches.” I put my palms in front of me, about ten inches apart.
“In your dreams,” she said.
“Yeah, about three times a night. But let me get you that drink.” I glanced at her glass. “White wine, right?”
“If you think you can get it here without spilling it.” Her eyes revealed that she considered the possibility unlikely.
I returned a minute later. “I forgot. Last call was twenty minutes ago. We’ll have to go somewhere else.”
The lady’s companion returned. Clearly the more attractive of the two, her exuberant breasts overwhelmed a low-cut dress far too elegant for the venue. “What’s up with this loser?”
“No, it’s okay. He’s cool.” My new friend nodded theatrically toward the restroom and told me she’d be right back. They both disappeared.
I glanced at Ted, who shrugged his shoulders and gestured with his hands, sign language for “What the fuck is going on over there?”
I gave him two thumbs up. He stumbled over to my table. “Seriously? Seriously?”
“Dude, this is the real deal.” I handed him the Franklin and told him to take a cab.
“I can drive.”
I knew he kept his keys in his left front pocket. I put out my hand and demanded that he relieve himself of his means of self-destruction. “No, you can’t. Take a cab.”
“Fucker. Why do you score, and I have to go home alone?”
We had known each other since high school and discovered a long time ago that luck was capricious. He would forgive me tomorrow. “Get the hell out of here before she comes back. I’ll tell her you abandoned me.”
“Thanks. You’re a real pal.”
“I’ll call you later. Much later.”
He left just as the two ladies returned from whatever two ladies do together in the lady’s room. My companion sat down, and her friend examined me from head to crotch before marching outside.
“Now, where were we?” she asked.
“I believe you were being blinded by the size of my dick,” I said.
“Oh, that’s right. We were discussing nanotechnology.” If I hadn’t already been hooked, the now prominent dimples would have taken me over the edge.
“Closing in ten minutes,” the bartender announced.
She rubbed my inner thigh under the table. “Did your friend leave?”
“The only friend I need is still right between my legs.”
She moved her hand up a little further. “Well, I hope he grows up some day.”
“He’s been described as extremely precocious.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She put her glasses back on. “I hope you don’t mind being seen in a red Porsche. Don’t want to shatter your image.”
“Isn’t the back seat a little small? Well, never mind, how would you know?”
She winked, grabbed my hand, and took me outside. The valet brought her a silver Toyota. She teased my thigh all the way to her suburban townhome, and we started kissing the second we settled into the couch. We abandoned our shoes. We emptied our wine glasses twice. Our clothes ended up next to the shoes.
She led me into the bedroom. My little friend had grown up. “Trust me,” she said.
Those were the last intelligible words spoken until our happy ending.
* * *
Ted called about eleven o’clock the next morning. “You’re not going to believe what happened.”
“Spare me the first and second guesses.”
“I scored. Big time.”
“You’re kidding! I sent you home in a cab.”
“Still got that bill in my pocket.”
“Okay, I give up. Spill.”
“Well, see, I go out front and call for a cab. Then your lady friend’s friend marches out, hands her ticket to the valet, and sees me standing there. She just stares at me, like I’m some kind of weirdo, for the entire time she’s waiting for her car. The valet pulls up in a red Porsche. Then she leans over and whispers in my ear, “I don’t know if I can trust you with my vagina!”
- January 2016 Posts of the Month