Larimer Street at 2am in Denver on a Saturday night
One of the cons of being a bachelor, though, is that when you don't have any plans, and your friends aren't around, you find yourself alone and bored. It doesn't happen too often, but when it does, it kind of sucks. This is when the bachelor gene kicks in and I restlessly wander out into the night, looking for "kicks and tricks," as an old friend of mine used to say.
A Plan Comes Together:
That was the situation I found myself in this past Saturday night. No performances, my friends all had plans or were staying in for the night, and I was left with a lack of plans. Fortunately, an old friend came to my rescue and what looked like it was going to be a slow night catching up on "Burn Notice" reruns, turned into one of those nights worthy of recounting in stories over a campfire, complete with face paints and native dances.
The plan for the night was a bit of a bachelor's wet dream. An old friend, who also happens to do some modeling on the side was having her second annual "Divorce Party." You have to know the woman throwing the party to understand why I had such high expectations of the soiree. She's a tall drink of water, with legs that go on forever. Film Noir-speak aside, she's an attractive woman, if not just a little high maintenance for my tastes. But I do love spending time with her and, let's face it, every bachelor knows that attractive women often have attractive girlfriends, particularly when they model.
So it was with some twitterpation that I trudged the four blocks to Rack & Rye where the evening kicked off. When I walked in, it felt like walking into a yuppie version of a Scorsese movie, only instead of mobsters gathered around a long table discussing "hits" and family matters in a melange of conversation, it was a bunch of women and a handful of guys talking about fashion shows, production jobs and Mary Kay.
Of the 25 or 30 people at the table, not to mention the bar owner, the chef, the bartender and various other patrons who weren't really "with" the party, but were there anyway and happened to know the happy divorcee, I knew exactly one person, Tara, the divorcee herself. So what's a slat and peppered bachelor to do when surrounded by a bevy of attractive women who also happen to be complete strangers? Turn on the charm and talk, talk, talk.
It was a fascinating experience watching 20 attractive women, slightly drunk of wine and some kind of sweet, mojito-type drink, interact. It was both catty and sexy at the same time. Talk of relationships and men and loves won and lost dominated the conversation on my end of the table, which happened to be right next to Tara. I had some wonderful conversation with the gals nearby, with the exception of one lady, who either just didn't like me, or wasn't into me. Of course, like all bachelors, I'm going to assume she just doesn't like men.
We ate, there was gossip, some tension when an ex showed up with a new girlfriend and drank more sweet alcoholic nectar. And so ended the first half of the night. I had no idea what was coming next, but it would prove to be a trip in the way back machine to my younger, crazier bachelor days.
The Night Turns:
Right after paying the bill, we moved two doors down to a club called "Drink". I had spent many nights in this space years ago when it went by a different name, and had a decidedly different atmosphere. Actually, just walking into Rack & Rye brought back a flood of memories as the space
A fuzzy pic of Tara eating real food
used to house the original Purple Martini. Ah, yes, the PM. It used to have the strongest martinis and the hottest waitresses in town. It also used to be connected to the bar now called Drink. It used to be called something very different years ago, but regardless of the time separation and name change, the end result is still pretty much the same. A lot of drinking, dancing, dark lighting, bright colors and the promise of sex hanging in the stale, musky air.
I finished my cigarette outside, watching the hordes of 20-somethings crowd the sidewalk. The guys looked horny and the girls were dressed to kill. Clearly, the little black dress is still in fashion, and why not, as a leg guy, there's nothing I like more than an attractive woman in a very short skirt. Boo Yah! I was stationed in front of the valet parking podium, and I watched as car after car pulled up and unloaded four, five, six women, smelling of thick perfume and teetering on high, pointy heels, and constantly tugging at the hem of their skirt to keep the naughty parts from showing. A little buzzed, I flicked my butt out into the street and made my way into the pumping nightclub.
Tara was already in social butterfly overdrive, mingling with her hot friends and large, slightly menacing-looking men who apparently owned the clubs on the block. The night was still pretty young, so the dance floor wasn't completely swamped, making it easier to wind my way to the back of the room, right next to the DJ booth, where an elegant velvet rope marked off our special VIP section.
I suddenly found myself in a little bit of bachelor heaven. From our perch, raised up above the dance floor at the far end of the club, we could see the entire space, all the pretty young girls, dancing and gyrating. One of Tara's friends, a gorgeous brunette with a wide smile and huge, brown eyes greeted me warmly as I entered the roped off section. The area was full of models and would be models and drunky chicks. I happened to be standing next to the only other guy in the section, who also was called Chris. A videographer from Montana, he'd made the trip down to Denver for the event. We watched as girls came and went from the section, sometimes to dance, other times to grab a drink. They'd shake and shimmy and disappear into the growing crowd.
Not long after I arrived, a stunning blonde with a dress that looked like had been painted on brought us a tray of mixers and large bottle of Grey Goose. Ahh, bottle service, there's nothing like it. We wasted no time diving right into the vodka and I geared myself for a night of drink and dance.
Suddenly, the other Chris and I caught sight of a couple dancing directly on the other side of the velvet rope. The man in the couple was an older white guy, probably about my age, maybe a little older. He moved like a zombie. Every foot shake or arm wave was an exercise in awkwardness. It looked as if someone had literally shoved a pole up his ass and his back was incapable of bending or movement.
Meanwhile, the girl, a cocoa-skinned, curvy woman with long curly caramel locks was busting moves that would make a Madonna backup dancer jealous. Let me take just a moment to say that, no matter how old I get, people watching at a dance club will never, EVER get old for me. I've never been much of a dancer, but I have always enjoyed going to clubs to simply sit back and observe the crazy. I will say this, I don't remember nudity being an integral part of the dance clubs I frequented ten years ago. Apparently that has changed, along with the names of the clubs.
In a moment that took at least the other Chris and I by surprise, the woman flailed her arms, wrapped them around the neck of the white zombie, kissed him full on the lips, and then proceeded to take her top off. No hesitation, no fear or second thoughs, just, whoosh and suddenly there was boobie bouncing around to the beats of the Black Eyed Peas.
I nearly choked on the lime in my vodka tonic. Within minutes, the top was back on, but now the pants were edging down slightly. We all knew the woman wasn't wearing a bra, but by now we were intrigued to find out if she was wearing underwear. Sadly, the song ended before we could find out and the man grabbed her around the waist and they melted into the throng.
I Have no Idea:
Then, as if on cue from a director, a man, dressed in a tan sportsjacket and slacks with a white shirt, the top three buttons undone, appeared before me. His name is Brad. He is an ex of Tara's and had caused quite a stir when he showed up earlier with his new girlfriend from Thailand. The music was loud, and hearing actual words was difficult. Most conversations went something like this...
Other person: "MMMBHSLKFHDLS DRUNK SLKK GIRLS WENE SLD LKWJSIE YOU IN?"
Me: "Yeah, sure, whatever!"
Other person: "COOL! CLKWJERHSOIKMMMF D FKS DKFKEMMMBS Vagina!"
Me: "Sounds great! Whatever!"
Normally this is a sure way to get into some serious trouble, or at the very least into a situation you probably don't want to be in. But after several of the mojito-type drinks and some very strong vodka tonics, I didn't really care. I didn't have to be anywhere on Sunday, so, what could it hurt, right?
After a brief, but confusing exchange with Brad, he also disappeared, leaving me with Chris and two other women, who were also older, but not unattractive. We sat down around the tiny table and yelled comments to each other. As we sat there, a girl, who I could easily describe as a "dancer" (think of me saying the word dancer, while making the quotation marks sign in the air with my fingers) literally stumbled over the rope and literally into my lap. Her thigh-high boots with the 8 inch heels apparently too much for her to handle.
She had a drink in one hand and her coat and purse in the other. She flopped her coat on me and dropped her purse, but didnt' spill a drop of her drink. I was impressed. after helping her up, she smiled a crooked, inebriated smile, then leaned over, grabbed my head in her hands and planted a wet, whiskey-soaked kiss on my lips. "You're cute" she said, "watch my stuff". Then she weaved her way back onto the dance floor to dance, I assume. Now to be fair, I'm pretty sure she said "you're cute" because I could barely hear her. But that's what it sounded like. I suppose she could have said, "you brute" or "foresooth" or maybe even "tootie fruity" but I'm going to go with "you're cute" so there.
I never saw her again the rest of the night. In fact, I was looking for the cute brunette that greeted me when I walked in, but I couldn't find her. Sure, the moment I saw her, all the bells and warning whistles went off in my head. As an "experienced" bachelor, I have a well developed spidey sense when it comes to crazy. And this girl just oozed crazy. But, like the sirens that sang songs on the rocks and sent sailors to their deaths, sometimes you just can't avoid the crazy. Sometimes it's worth it. And, in my slightly inebriated state, I felt daring.
As I was still recovering from the unexpected kiss and scanning the room for the sexy brunette, Brad showed up again, stepping right in front of me, taking up my entire line of sight. This time, he wasn't alone.
I'm not sure what our conversation was about earlier, but it apparently involved some kind of setup. Behind him and his Thai girlfriend were two young girls, both looking shy but attractive, clearly buzzed and dressed in little more than extravagant bathing suits.
"They're single" Brad yelled to me. "SLKGHSL SLKD EASY!" Again, I couldn't make out what he was saying, but he then grabbed my arm and pushed me towards the girls. Confidently, I introduced myself and they returned the favor in thick Russian accents. "They're Russian Au Pairs" Brad yelled again. "They're looking for American men to hook up with!" Ah, now it was coming together for me. "Come on, make your move, they're easy!" Brad said with a wide grin. He was bound and determined to show me the pleasures of exotic, foreign women.
I made drinks for the two girls, we tried to converse, but it was hard enough to talk even without an accent getting in the way. After a bit, we stopped trying to talk and I danced a little with the redhead, who did a little grinding dance from behind and put her hands in my pockets.
Women, maybe it's just me, but it's not supposed to be this easy. Men don't get scared, they just lose interest in these situations. Don't get me wrong, I would have gone home with the redhead, had it not been for another large man who seemingly didn't like the fact that they had wandered away from their table and wound up in our section. He grabbed the girl I wasn't dancing with by the arm and dragged her out on the dance floor and then returned to talk to the girl I was "dancing" with. I don't know what they said, the exchange seemed tense, but not heated. I'm not sure they were even speaking English. After a moment, she returned, pulled out a pen and wrote her name and number on a napkin and shoved it into my pocket. No words were said, but she smiled and simply left.
By now, I was reeling a little. This wasn't so unusual when I was 22 and a bachelor, but at 40, overweight, graying and more interested in the vodka than dancing, it was certainly unexpected. I had to sit down. I made my way back to the seat, next to the older women I'd been talking to earlier and we had a big laugh at something one of them said. I don't know what was said, I only know that they laughed, so I laughed with them. Tara had returned and was in the corner sitting in the other Chris' lap. She seemed happy and content and I was having fun.
I poured another drink from a new bottle and sat back to take everything in. Somehow, I found myself nearly alone behind the tiny table. Chris and Tara had disappeared, the older women had left to go back to the suburbs and Brad and his girls were nowhere to be seen. I was in the middle of trying to figure out why the cranberry juice tasted more like club soda when a new girl plopped down beside me and asked me for a drink.
Now, I'm not a stupid man, I was pretty sure that this new girl wasn't part of our group, and she was just looking for a free cocktail. But I obliged her and poured her a strong vodka and OJ. We sat in relative silence for a minute as I watched to see what she did next. She took a sip, seemed surprised at how strong it was and then just sat there. I expected her to leave immediately after getting the drink, but she didn't leave. She stayed. Like most of the other girls in the club, she was cute, so I asked her her name, introduced myself and queried as to how she knew Tara.
It turns out she grew up with Tara, in Detroit. Detroit? My Tara is from Jersey. This girl, Lindsey, I think was her name, said she was in town for a week, visiting Tara. How nice, I thought. Coming all the way from Detroit for the divorce party. Oddly enough, when my Tara showed up, I asked her why she never told anyone she was really from Detroit. My Tara looked at me as if I were speaking Aramaic.
"That's not Tara," Lindsey said. THAT'S my Tara, pointing to another girl emerging from the dance floor. Terra, as I was told her name is spelled, took Lindsey's place as Lindsey went to go find the bathroom. I poured a drink for Terra, found out that she knows Tara from a Mary Kay thingy and we struck up a conversation. After about ten minutes, my Tara told me she was leaving. I was truly now on my own. Everyone I knew, Tara, Chris, Brad, his Thai girlfriend, who makes breakfast for him and cleans his room and does his laundry everyday, they were all gone. Now it was just me and this new Terra.
The New Girl:
We drank, killed the bottle, as she told me of her dreams to someday operate the mother of all recreation centers, complete with olympic size swimming pool, racquetball courts and I think she said a thunderdome, but again, it was hard to hear. It was now nearly 1:30 and I was starting to poop out. That's what 40 year old bachelors do, right? They poop out. I got up to leave and she grabbed my hand and wouldn't let go.
She said something, but I couldn't quite make it out because of the music and the noise and the fact that by now, she was slightly slurring her words. I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, thanked her for her time and started to leave. I wasn't halfway to the door when I felt her behind me, grabbing my hand again. I continued to leave and she simply followed me out the door.
Listen, I'm a red-blooded American man. This wasn't a woman I was going to have any kind of relationship with, but if she wanted to go home with me, why in the world would I say no? Once out on the sidewalk, I asked her what she was doing.
"I'm going home with you," she said, wobbling slightly. "You said you live nearby, right?"
I told her I did and started to walk home. She paused briefly and then grabbed my hand again. "You know I'm not just crashing at your place, right?" Actually, I didn't know that. I wasn't sure what her motives were. My experience has taught me to be wary of things that seem too good to be true. I told her that as we continued to walk past Larimer Street. "Do you have condoms?" she asked.
Now let me say that when I was younger, I always had condoms at the ready, but as I got older, I stopped keeping them in my wallet, and, eventually, for some reason stopped keeping them handy in my house. Stupid move, one which would come back to bite me later, but that's another story I'll never tell. Since that one night when I found myself in need of a condom but without one, I have started keeping them handy once again. I told Terra I did have condoms, which seemed to put a bounce in her step.
We were just walking up to my apartment lobby when she stopped suddeny and looked at me with her huge brown eyes, looking as if she was going to cry. Not a word was spoken as she squeezed my hand harder and then promptly bent over and threw up all over my shoes and jeans. Here's another hint, ladies, if you want to get laid, don't throw up on the guy.
The tears came almost immediately afterwards. I felt bad for her. Yes, the warning signs were evident. If the one cute brunette had set off warning bells and whistles, this girl literally came with a Robbie the Robot in he background with waving mechanical arms and yelling "Danger Will Robinson, Danger!" The level of crazy for this girl was off the charts. And yet, I really did feel bad for her.
There was a loneliness about her, a desperation that most of us can relate to. There's a reason an attractive 23 year old woman gets drunk in a club after speaking of hopes and dreams before going home with a 40 year old fat guy. I knew this. I'm not sure if I would have actually slept with her had she not thrown up. I would have felt like I was taking advantage of a woman in the throes of a depressed, desperate decision. She just wanted companionship, don't we all? She wanted to be with someone, anyone. It wouldn't have meant anything, it would have simply been sex. It probably would have been sloppy and ragged, but she might have felt good for a while, at least until she woke up and found me sleeping next to her. Who knows?
What I DO know, is that I flagged down a cab, found out where she lived and gave her ten bucks to get home (she lived on Capitol Hill, a six or seven dollar cab ride, I know from experience). As we waited for the cab, she insisted I take her number and give her mine. Taking a page from my younger bachelor friend, I now have her listed as Terra Drink. First name, and the bar where we met.
As I watched the cab pull away with a still crying and very sleepy Terra in the backseat, I thought about everything that had happened over the past six hours. It felt like I had just returned from a grand adventure. I half expected my Hobbit friends to be gathered in the lobby and cheer my triumphant return to the Shire (Lord of the Rings reference, look it up).
Epilogue:
Smelling of alcohol and puke, wobbly myself from too much vodka, I made my way to the elevator and eventually into the friendly confines of my apartment. The front desk guy, who is used to seeing me come home in the early morning hours in less than perfect shape after a night out, simply looked at me, jaw agape. He didn't say anything as I looked at him. No snarky remarks, not even a hello. Just a look that said, "Holy shit, old man, what did you get yourself into?"
I remember seeing him shake his head as the elevator doors closed shut. I had survived. I felt fulfilled, I felt satisfied. I felt drunk and tired. It had been a good night, a fun night, a night for my friend Tara, to celebrate her bachelorhood and single freedom-ness. It was a night to recall some of the shenanigans I used to pull when I was younger. To not only relive some of my past glory, but to remind myself that my future wasn't dim, that I still ha a little bit of game.
I woke with a blinding hangover Sunday morning. Just a reminder that I can't do this every night like I used to. But every now and then, I can still tear up the town when I want to. Long live bachelorhood, long live nudity at dance clubs, long live girls named Tara, or Terra, or..whatever. Next weekend, I'll settle for a few beers with Meredith and Shannon and Anne and Mark and Stephen. I mean, a guy can only take so much. And, frankly, there's only so much facepaint and ritual dancing that can be done around campfires during the retelling of legendary nights.
Informative content, In bachelor party you can drink all night but between the beer and the strippers, wouldn't it be fun to have a few bachelor party games such as Despedida Soltero.
ReplyDelete