Unless I’m taking a meeting, eating or running/exercising, I’m usually procrastinating goofing off working in front of my computer. Occasionally, when I need a break or I have writer’s block, I’ll take a walk to one of the fine drinking establishments in my hood, enjoy a shot of whiskey, play some Mott the Hoople on the jukebox, do some people watching, come back and I’m usually ready to jump back to work.
The other night was such an occasion. I walked strolled strutted down to a local bar, ordered my drink and put my dollar in the jukebox. It was a weeknight so the place was mellow and quiet—just the way I like it. There were some college kids in the booths, a couple on a date, a few (mostly) regulars and me. At the end of the bar was an attractive woman, sitting by herself with only a Coke and rum to keep her company. She was blonde, blue-eyed, had an amazing body, beautiful face, looking like she was probably just out of college and new to L.A., clad in jeans and a tight t-shirt with an American flag embroidered across her ample chest–every Japanese businessman’s wet dream. In other words, way out of my league.
So I walk over to the jukebox to punch in a final song before calling it a night. While mulling over my choices, I feel someone coming up behind me.
“Were you the one who picked ‘All The Young Dudes?’” The voice behind me asks. I turn around and it’s Blondie from the bar except now minus the company of her Coke and rum. I nod; trying to muster all the coolness of a young Montgomery Clift. And then she…wait, actually Clift struggled with his sexuality and “manhood” issues all his life so let me amend that last sentence to…I nod, trying to muster all the coolness of a young James Dean.
You have to understand that this sort of thing—a beautiful woman approaching me of her own free will and not because she lost a bet with a sorority sister–rarely happens. I mean I’ve been hit on by women I don’t know before, but they generally tend to be teens with daddy issues, Japanese porn stars or chicks who, until their most recent operation, peed standing up. So I knew I had to play this…as smooth as butter.
“I absolutely love that song,” Blondie says. “What are you gonna put on next?”
“Got a request?” I try to make my voice more deep and mysterious, but just end up sounding like Christian Bale’s Batman after he’s smoked too many cigarettes.
“Surprise me,” she smiles.
She wants me to choose? Oh shit, the pressure. Whatever song I select next could determine whether or not tonight will be the night I finally get to write that letter to Penthouse Forum (“Dear Penthouse, I never thought something like this would happen to me. It started as a normal Tuesday night at my local bar…”).
OK, I think to myself, she likes Mott the Hoople so David Bowie is probably a safe bet. The jukebox has a pretty good selection of Bowie CDs. The trick is to pick the right song—it can’t be something too obvious or over-played like “Let’s Dance” or “Young Americans,” but it can’t be so obscure that she’s never heard it before. The key is to pick the one that will elicit a response of, “I love that song! I haven’t heard it in ages!” I decide “Life on Mars” is the right choice. I punch in the numbers and the music plays:
And Blondie screams, “I love that song! I haven’t heard it in ages!”
Score! I wonder if Penthouse pays for the letters they publish ‘cause I could definitely use an upgrade on my iPod.
“Can I buy you another drink?” I ask. She agrees. We slide into the corner booth. Another Coke and rum for her, another whiskey for me. Bowie on the jukebox. Man, life is pretty sweet.
And it gets better. We talk and we’re really hitting it off. More Cokes, rums and whiskeys. She has a great sense of humor, loves Bowie and when I make a fleeting reference to And Now My Love, an obscure 1970s French film considered by geeky cinephiles to be one of the most romantic movies ever made, not only does she know it, but she’s seen it twice. She’s fucking seen it! Two times!
But in the back of my mind, I know that if things are going this well so early on, the other shoe has to drop at some point. Somewhere down the line I’m going to discover that she kills after she mates or she has vaginal agenesis or she’s just downright cuckoo. It’s not that I’m pessimistic, but as regular readers of this blog know, there have been certain patterns and precedents in my life that I’d be foolish to ignore.
And sure enough, it happens. Blondie is telling me about herself. She’s a self-proclaimed country girl—born, bred and raised on a farm out in the heartland of Iowa or Illinois or one of those states in the middle of the country that starts with an “I.” She grew up milking cows and planting corn and can drive a tractor blind-folded. I don’t think I’ve met a real-life American farm girl before. But it’s definitely a turn-on.
“You think I should be a hick, right?” She says. “Well, I’ll have you know there wasn’t much else to do on the farm except read, listen to music and watch a lot of movies.”
She continues to playfully give me a hard time for stereotyping her as a country hick. We go back and forth cracking jokes about farm life; trying to make each other laugh. We’re both drunk or at least heavily buzzed and things are getting pretty hot. I’m fairly sure this is foreplay, but being a guy I’m not 100% sure.
Then I say, “So have you ever fucked a farm animal? I hear you country hicks do it all the time.” Of course, this is also a joke.
“Oh, yeah, I’m glad you asked about that,” she says. “I forgot about that. That’s the other thing we do when we’re bored on the farm.”
I laugh as she goes on about what it’s like to fuck horses and sheep and other assorted critters. Wow, she’s really inventive in her descriptions, I think. In fact, it’s getting downright graphic. She continues on this topic and then a funny thought enters my mind, “Uh…is she still joking?” She has to be, right? I mean it’s sex with farm animals. It’s true that I’ve read somewhere that people who grow up on farms “experiment” sexually with their animals, but…come on…right?
Blondie notices I’m not laughing anymore. “Is something wrong?”
In that one moment before I reply, a jumble of thoughts race through my brain. One, I realize that I’m pretty certain that she’s definitely not joking about fucking farm animals. Two, I’m not exactly sure how I feel about this new bit of information. On one hand, the thought of it is pretty repulsive, but…well, it’s not that bad is it? I mean we’ve all done some weird, freaky shit before, right? There’s at least one store mannequin that was completely defiled because I was 14 and wanted to…but wait, this isn’t about me! Anyway, I can’t get the image of her mounting a horse out of my mind and it’s definitely not a turn on. But damn, she’s hot and that’s gotta count for something. God, why did I have to ask her about fucking farm animals? If only I didn’t, I’d be blissfully ignorant and halfway to writing my Penthouse letter by now. No, no, this is bad news! Man, how do I always find myself faced with these Sophie’s Choice decisions? I know what I have to do.
“I really need to be going,” I say. “But thank you for a lovely evening.”
Blondie looks confused. I take it she doesn’t have much experience with guys saying no to her.
I say good-bye, pay the tab and walk out into the crisp June L.A. night as the sound of Mick Jagger’s raspy voice bids me adieu from the jukebox. I guess you’re right, Mick, you can’t always get what you want. But the problem is–I ain’t getting what I need either. *Sigh*
As I walk home, a car full of drunk assholes passes by and one of them screams out, “How much for one night, baby?!”
“More than you can afford, dickwad!” I scream back.
Normally, such an encounter would upset me, but I find that I’m feeling surprisingly giddy. Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the lingering endorphins from the pre-animal fucking portion of my evening or maybe it’s simply the realization that I have just had the type of evening that’s only possible in the City of Angels. Which is why I love L.A.! Walking drunk down an empty street at 1 AM, quite possible the only pedestrian in all of Los Angeles at this hour and feeling good to be alive. Shit, I love my life! And at the very least, I now have something to blog about besides how freakish the Japanese are.