There is a customer at my store who is love with me. She asked her mother to ask me out on a date, because she is too shy to ask me herself. Before she asked her mother to ask me out -she inquired to some of my co-workers if I was single. I bet she would like it if I asked her out for some coffee.
I don't have a car, and I don't like coffee.
Her mother showed me a picture of the woman before she asked me if I would like to get her daughter's phone number. Her daughter had short blond hair that flipped up at the ends. She looked to be in her late thirties and was slightly overweight.
Her mother told me that she was aware that I was single and "since her daughter was single, would I like to get her number?"
I don't want your daughter's number. She is not my type.
"I like them pretty." I told the co-worker. "I can't help myself."
I jotted down the phone number the old woman gave me. I had to ask her to repeat the number twice. I'm not sure why it was so important to me to get the number correct as I never intended to call her.
I told my ex-girlfriend about the woman. She seemed unruffled. She asked when I was going to go on the date with the girl. I said, "never."
The ex-girlfriend called me her friend. "Sometimes I go a long time without seeing my friends."
I don't want to be your friend. I have way too many friends. I don't like most of them. Those I do like come over too often, or they ask me to do things for them. Then they tell me things that are supposed to make me care about them. And all this makes me uneasy. It makes me guilty. It fills me with fear.
There is something I don't like about the woman that loves me. She is a regular customer. We have short discussions when I check her groceries out. She is always smiling at me. There is some twinkle in her eyes. She seems grotesque to me now. So happy. So jovial. I am the answer to all her problems.
I'm at Rocky Point Catina. A woman is gyrating towards me at me.
She is petite, under 5 feet tall. A Mexican, she is wearing a skirt so short that it barely conceals her tiny panties.
She is overtly sexual. Strong, thick black hair down to her waist. Amazing eyes that are wide with youth and vigor.
"Are you here alone?" She asks.
"I am."
"I am with a friend." I also try and tell her. But it is loud and my words do not work well when I am sober and being grinded into by a sexual beast.
She had been dancing by herself. A practice of art that the ethnic woman of today has mastered. They shake their booty. They decide which man to rub against. It is a feminist dream come true. A dream or a nightmare. The woman are all about sex, display, and power.
The men are just happy to watch, to be chosen, to know we have fooled them into playing our game of casual sex with no feelings. The men sit back because they know they have won.
Stephanie has been ignored all night by the men. Despite the fact that she is one of the best dancers at the club. Perhaps the men (all negro) have no interest in Mexicans. She is a nice looking woman though child like in size.
"How old are you?" She asks She pauses her ass shaking to look up at me. Her eyes are ablaze. She has mastered the turn and stare. Her hair flares out magnificently. She looks like she knows she is being filmed for MTV.
I told her I was 39.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was at the bar." I tell her.
She goes back to humping me. A few minutes later I am high fived by a brother. He winks at me. I wink back and high five him. I shove my hands in the air. I am confounded by all the movement my partner is making on my genitals. I am slightly aroused, but know instinctively that too much arousal is bad, (but that some is good.)
Stephanie finds my penis and squishes it back an forth between her butt cheeks. She uses me a stripper pole. She writhes up an down on my body. She is showing off for all the other men.
Her friend has a hold of her arm. Her friend has had enough of Stephanie showing me a good time. But for some reason Stephanie is stubborn. She has wanted to dance with a man. She has wanted to grind. She has wanted to hump. And I am content to let her. So she rewards my patience.
A few minutes later and Stephanie decides she will attempt to attract a younger man. I wander off to the bathroom. The restroom is strangely empty despite the fact that the club part of the bar is packed with sweaty black men and woman.
None of them are in the restroom which smells heavily of pot smoke. The amount of smoke is obnoxious. It is patently obvious what everyone is doing. They are all smoking week. I make the racist observation aloud that "this would not be allowed in a white bar." In a white club.
If you are white you smoke weed in your car, or at your house. Everyone knows that at the club you snort coke. You don't smoke weed in a club. It's lower class. But maybe pot is why everyone here is so relaxed. I am my usual clumsy self and I bump into a number of large African-American men. None of them get angry at me. None of the show even the slightest hint of resentment or annoyance towards me. Some of them apologize for my mistake.
On my way back from the restroom I notice Stephanie is alone again. She has her rear end pointed out. She is waiting for a man again. I think about going over to her. I think about getting behind her and mounting her. I think about telling her I am sorry for not having a car. That I live just a few blocks away. That we can walk there. That I will offer a cab ride home after we are done.
"I am 21." She tells me. But I don't see one of those paper bands they place around your wrist when you can drink. I think she is 18. She must be at least 18 I tell myself. They check ID's here very carefully.
But I don't tell her anything else. I just walk out the door. I leave the club to go get a pizza and a coke. When I am done I walk home alone.
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