Friday night I made out with a she-male. A big, hulking, old, leather-y, busted man-woman.
Ya like that? usually I tell the story from beginning to end, and build up to the big finale. I think this time I just wanted to grab the reader. Much like I was grabbed and molested on Friday night.
I had dinner with my friend Brom, and after dinner, he called our mutual friend, Lara, and arranged to hang with her. She was apparently bringing her friend Denise. Because I'm such a suave and caring person, I quoted Tom Cruise from Magnolia: "Denise. Denise the Piece." Well, Denise, or perhaps more appropriately Dennis, was not a piece of anything, except manliness. She talked liked Patty and Selma from the Simpsons if they were from Southie, and towered over me. She had no breasts to speak of, and was apparently 45 years-old, but I would have guessed 55. Needless to say, I was instantly repulsed by Dennis.
Well, we ended up at Tommy Doyle's, and all four of us sat at the bar, which confused me because there were tables. So, four across the bar and I somehow was situated next to this thing. And we're having a few drinks and I'm talking and figuring that any minute now we would be moving to a table. Well, that never happened, and I was hearing all kinds of ridiculous stories about this woman's time in Hollywood (she was an aspiring MODEL!), and how Jackie Mason was hitting on her. So, I decided to drink some more, to get through it, her with her Coors Light and me with my Harpoon. I even ordered a shot, which I never do. I think shots are usually pretty lame actually, and this one was no exception. Jaeger and Peach Schnapps or something. Whatever. It tasted like grape juice, and it certainly did not improve my situation. In fact, I think Dennis was getting more drunk and frisky by the minute, even telling me at one point, "Order me anotha be-ah!" Que? Order your own fucking beer.
Finally, she asked for the bill, and since it was under her card, I actually tried to screw her on the bill a little ("Here's $14. That cover me?"), which was ungentlemanly, I know, but I thought maybe it would sufficiently turn her off. I ended up throwing her a twenty and we left. Outside, she grabbed me and said, "Is that a Hahhhvid frat house over there? Let's go see if they'll give us some of their be-ahs."
"Well, it's empty," I responded. It's summer."
"Let's go check!"
Bad. Very bad. She dragged me over to the dark corner of the street, and laid one on me. With tongue. Mind you, I have had a few drinks, but not so many that I am not conscious of what was happening. Clear thoughts raced through my head, like, "What am I doing? This isn't good." Yet I did not push her away. Somehow, I guess I would have thought that rude.
Thankfully, it was brief, and we rejoined our friends, but not before she gave me her "cahhd," and asked me to give her call sometime. Which I will never do. She also told me that I am "a good kissah." I wanted to say, "Compared to what?"
This was a low point. Probably worse than the Audra Blue Ball Incident. I have a list of people I've made out with, and up to this point, it was all good. This taints the whole thing. And yet, I couldn't help but think, after it was over and I had rinsed with powerful mouthwash for three hours, that maybe this is all I'm capable of. Maybe I can't do any better than Denise the Piece. Like Jack Nicholson, I was left to wonder, "What if this is as good as it gets?"
I refuse to believe that, deep down. I've had better women, more fun, and I do truly feel that better days are ahead. However, until that someone better comes along to make out with, I will still have that lingering thought in the back of my head: What if this is as good as it gets?