Friday, February 2, 2007

...special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions...

I should have worn a sesame-seed bun.

I attended an internet-bulletin-board sponsored party tonight, where a group of older men buy drinks for a group of younger women for the purpose of inspecting the merch, and the younger women flirt with, tease and hug the older men for the purpose of drumming up business.

Held at a bar in Grimy Midwestern City, it was felicitously located opposite an adult viewing-booth establishment. The men all looked relatively normal, mostly over 40, mostly overweight, with a sprinkling of skinny 30-somethings with skinny moustaches.

The women were about half "spinners" - comes from "Sit-n-Spin" - and half Big Beautiful Women. They mostly sat at a table in the corner and socialized with each other. The dynamic was odd - a couple of the women were very friendly, including one who shares a similar name and description with me (there has been confusion). Some of the women gave me the "Who's *this* new poptart?" look. Every time I joined a table that already had a woman at it, I greeted her first, complimented her, turned the conversation towards her, teased the men about her, the classic defensive maneuvers to avoid being ruthlessly cut from the female herd over the issue of men.

One of the men, the official host, took me around to meet everyone, introducing them by their bulletin board names.

"This is [Initials]."

"Hi, Initials!"

"This is [City Plus Number}"

"Hi there, City!"

"This is [Sexual Practice]"

"And so he does, I'm sure!"

The man who touched my arm and asked me to "stop by for a minute when you get a chance," his papery 70-something skin making my flesh creep, turned out to be a great conversationalist, telling me about his job as a financial something and asking me a lot of very thoughtful questions about my artistic work.

Happy Buddha Guy, who kept hugging me to demonstrate his point about the host being a "Hug-Blocker" pulled me aside when I said goodbye, asking permission to message me. The dim light caught his mid-life-crisis earring. Skinny Moustache at the same table pulled me in the other direction for the same reason.

Shy Ex-Contractor, sitting alone at the bar, confessed that after comparing some of the women with their pictures from the board, he wouldn't be calling many of them. Now in pharmaceuticals, he loves working where it's clean all the time. We talked about my 'get-to-know-you' policy and he's thrilled I live in the same town.

I stumped Silver-Haired Crew Cut with "repugnance".

Every time I switched tables, eyes followed me. I wasn't the youngest lady in the room, or the best body, but I had the prettiest face - not that other ladies weren't attractive or well-featured, but I looked like someone you might meet in the office, or the grocery store, and a lot of the others' prettiness had a hard edge. The second-most-attractive woman there, for my money, was an older blonde with wire-rim glasses who should have been wearing the Fairy Godmother dress and waving the bibbity-bobbity-boo wand. Five foot nothing and plump, she patted my ass in my velvet skirt and invited me to another party. Her hair smelled delicious.

Afterwards, I went for coffee with a fellow I'd been meaning to meet up with next week, two hours away. When he found out this afternoon that I'd be attending, he took off work and drove over. Reasonably handsome, good skin, likes long (read=expensive) dates and likes giving backrubs. He takes my cup to get more whipped cream instead of letting me get up. He takes my tray to the trash.

When I get home, this is in my box:

I had a great time tonight. You are as beautiful as I expected and
more charming than I could have hoped.

I only wish I hadn't been so nervous. I think it was a mixture of the
party putting me off , the fact that we seemed to click a bit, and the
tiny voice in my head screaming "proposition her, you can eat Ramen
and car pool for a week."

I email back, telling him that when we're comfortable with each other, we will have a date at his house.

I will cook porkchops.


Tom Paine said...

Well, I give killer massages, just ask C. Says I have "Jack the Ripper" hands (strength and grip).

Second, I bet you were the prettiest in the room.

Finally, as C.'s British witch told her, "a woman who can't get along with other women can't be trusted." You don't have to be a feminist to know the little witch is on to something.

Compartments said...

I've always wondered what these message board parties were like. But since I hate the overall tone of message boards I don't dare go. Sounds like where you live it wasn't so bad.

Mandy said...

It certainly let me rule out a bunch of people I'm never going to see!