Goddamn. I don’t know whether it’s that I could be them (cue Chaka and “I’m Every Woman”), but I loves me some drunken women, when it comes to people watching. Nothing, NO THING is funnier than a woman sloppily getting her groove on and the guy stumbling in her wake.
Sometimes, perhaps more often than not lately, I live primarily in my head, happy to stay home with my computer and the Cali boyo on speed dial. Problem is, if you stay in the house too long, you miss out on great stories. Lately, it seems like most of the stories have to do with the world reminding me that I am older, which is OK by me, because it also seems to be the same stories telling me I ain’t quite as mentally slow neither.
Tonight, I dragged myself out to the Studio and caught the tail end of a nice guy who’s a Boston native now running a comedy night once a week in Brooklyn and generally doing the NYC comedy thing. Afterward, I went out to one of the bar’s on Mass. Ave. It is one of the most excellent dance floors in Cambridge in terms of watching wonderful, wanton, carefree, unbridled dancing.
The story I ended up watching and hearing was worth the getting out of the house journey for sure.
Some chick, wearing leather or pleather pants and a red sweater (Why must all hussies own the red sweater? I own a couple.) was seriously locked with a dude at the bar. At one point, his hand was pulling her head back so low, as they sucked each others’ faces silly, I thought they would end up sliding off the bar and into a fully supine, sticky bar floor shag. She goes wavering to the loo, and the guy is a wreck of nerves. Anticipation I guess.
She returns and they resume some serious tete a tete, although without quite the vigor of before, vigor which had nudged a guy to waltz around me to stand on my right away from their oblivious leaning and vigor which had the bartender and me sharing eye contact and a laugh as he tried to get them to stop by suggesting their behavior inappropriate. Then she goes out to smoke a smoke.
I am intrigued to see how this story ends, but I don’t see what’s coming next at all. The guy, the paramour, her love interest of the minute, comes up to me speaking a flood of words. I am informed that he’s freaked out and doesn’t know what to do, because the chick is HIS COUSIN. Fucking beautiful.
There’s some story about her trying to cheer him up after a traffic ticket and some other confusing jumble about their having some other cousins who are illegal aliens afraid of deportation, because they have married (as cousins), which apparently is the greenlight moment for her drunken advances. I swear the guy didn’t take a breath in telling me all of this stuff, and I’m just grinning away amused as all fucking get out. Beautiful.
Somewhere in there, I offer that (a) it’ll be a good story to tell his buddies, when his cousin sucks his dick (extrapolating her behavior against the bar into something quite oral), and (b) I’d make the wager of $20, he ended up going home with her, so he might as well just relax and live through the inevitable.
The best drunken logic response ever to my offering a 20 buck bet he go home with her was his counter offer. I could personally assure that she didn’t make it home with him by offering to go home with him myself. Let me get this straight — I would LOSE $20, because they didn’t go home together, and I would get the chance to go home with a chubby drunk guy with beery breath and, from what he said, a bad driving record.
Yeah, goody, I’ll get right on that.
They were still weaving and sloppily holding each other (after a little dance-floor intimacy) and wetly clinging when I left. Must be a very close-knit family.