At the bar, things were different. At the bar,
things were never hard. The low-cut necklines and
high hems in style those days played right to my strong
suits. I had all the pieces, and I knew it: I was hot and
men wanted me and that was all a person needed to know.
Take this guy who came over and sat next to me out of the blue
that Thursday, he was no exception. He bummed a cigarette,
that was his opening—not very original of course, but who could
blame him? You could tell the guy was a stiff crammed into a warm
body from the moment he hit the door in his khaki pants and Top Siders.
So, what the hell, it had been a slow week, I hadn’t been laid in almost
three days, I gave him a smoke.
The funny part was how nothing much surprised me after the first few months. The stiffs, the biker dudes, the difficult artist types, they all wanted you to think they had their own thing going, they all wanted you to think they were unique in some way, I guess, or at least original, but none of them ever were. Take that guy who came over and sat next to me out of the blue that Thursday: he bummed a cigarette, then he started in about what he did for a living. He went on and on and on like a bootleg tape from a bad concert: how important he was, you know, how he was in charge of this, and responsible for that; how he answered to him and worked along side her and had all of them under him, and most of everybody else. Original? About as original as macaroni and cheese out of a box!
And the best part? All I had to do was let him. I let him bum a cigarette, I let him ramble on about what a big-wig he was, I let him take awkward glances at my thighs and down the front of my dress, I laughed when I was supposed to, I urged him to go on. All I had to do to this stiff in the khakis and the Top Siders was urge him to go on. Go on, I’d say, and damned if he didn’t, just on and on. Then he’d stop for a sip from his drink and I’d say it again. Go on. And he would.
That’s the thing that still gets me: they tell you it isn’t easy, they tell you how you have to stop looking before you find, they tell you you’ll never find someone while you’re trying. They’re sore losers, all of them. And they’re wrong. I went to that bar that Thursday night, looking for a stiff crammed into a warm body wearing khaki pants and Top Siders, so what ends up sitting next to me? If you’ve got the bod and you know you’ve got the bod, if you’re really sexy, you know really hot, and you know you’re hot, you don’t have to do a fucking thing. He wanted to be smarter than I was, he wanted to be more important, more talented, more successful, richer; hell, he probably wanted to be better looking, and all I had to do was let him, and he’d be mine like a straggling gazelle. So that’s what I did, I let him. And less than an hour later, back at my place, he was.