Posted on January 20, 2012
Turn the Page or the Bacchanal
And now, as they would say on that show that I’m not fond of but that is popular with those 10-20 years my senior, FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT…
(this is behind a cut because it’s different in tone than the rest of this site)
She ventured out for something. She was desperate for human contact.
She was alone, she was always alone. To say that it was her decision would be an oversimplification but not entirely untrue.
She arrived already intoxicated but not to a fault. She could hold her liquor when pride called for it.
She hadn’t been there in many fortnights. She wasn’t thinking of dressing for this establishment. She was dressed for a low key night at a dive bar in another town, another time that she’d passed by. This entailed cleavage, makeup and perfume. It was an old routine and she found that she slipped into it with nary a thought.
It was wrong, she was wrong again. All the “girls” in her age range were dressed in cut off jean shorts and flip flops. They were rockin’ some sort of hillbilly aesthetic for a town that was nothing and nowhere, not the country, not the city.
She stood out, it didn’t matter, not really, she always did. It was better to stand out with armor than unarmored at any rate. The more eye makeup, the more slut armor, the MORE, period was a type of costume, like everything she wore.
She didn’t expect much. She listened to a few sing karaoke. She loved karaoke, she wanted to unabashedly but that didn’t fly. So she waited and waited. She downed a couple of drinks, with hard liquor on a night that catered to $1 bottles. Her nervousness was like a coat that she couldn’t remove. She sat there but as soon as a Jakob Dylan type sat near and tried to awkwardly initiate a conversation both of them were at a loss almost immediately. Her anxiety made her twitchy. She knew she was fingering her hair too much. She was peeking at him, too much like a schoolgirl.
He apologized for his previous karaoke performance that she’d loved. He’d sang an older rock song that she wasn’t familiar with in a raspy voice. He said that he’d had to sing early on since he had to work early in the morning. He left the bar abruptly. She didn’t take it as a slight.
A fogie seated at the bar, maybe not much past 50 but still old for her, started hitting on her. He was interesting. He was surprised but not insulting about her drink preference and started buying them for her. They were both unicorns to each other, a young woman who made an old school effort with her appearance and a man who would buy you a drink and compliment you.
He tried to lump her in with the ex-jocks, preps and hangers on who were playing pool while displaying their asses to each other but she quickly corrected him. He also tried to lump her in with her age group that was always on phones as she had been using hers as a crutch prior to his arrival. That was disgusting to her, to be like those pod people. She didn’t do much to disabuse him of the notion as it sounded better than the truth.
She was unsure of how to proceed but it didn’t matter, nothing was at stake. She decided to take the journalist approach. She feigned “shyness” and asked him about himself. She pulled interesting, old school stories out of him. When he said something about not wanting people to know his stories she was drunk enough to lie and said “it’s just me, who would I tell?”. He told her tales. She told some, few and far between, purposefully. Unlike other females she rooted on his sexual escapades (“damn, nice”) but then hit her gender head on when a tale took a dark turn. She tried to be sympathetic without upsetting him about something that had taken place decades ago.
She became most intrigued while discussing the rumored estate outside of town. The stories said there were orgies there occasionally. It was invite only. She pictured a Kubrickian scene. She would always paint the scenes in movies in her mind. He had been a doorman once. She let him have her number. She promised to attend one, she really did want to go, to observe. She didn’t return his message. It wasn’t a real thing. It was the type of thing that the whorey woman inside would do but who couldn’t be let out in this time, place, situation.
It was sad how the young, hot men were so impotent in their actions but the older would often make wild sexual offers with ease. She supposed it was because they had nothing to win, they knew it wouldn’t happen, they were accustomed to rejection. Not for the first time she pondered how sad it was that the young, soft men of her generation may never be like those in the past and that was a pity, indeed.