[This is from an e:mail to a correspondent of mine on OkCupi. We befriended each other internetically in April '05, & though we've never actually met, we maintain sporadic, amiabile discourse. She is also recently married, so quite willing to give dating advice. -- ajs]
So, the evening's story: NYE, I opened at the cineplex -- this year, for the first in my seven years at my nine-to-five, I was off the Eve as well the Day -- & stayed 'til 5.00 pm, 5.30. Afterward, drove over to my mother & stepfather's, ate some cheese & crackers, drank a Coca-Cola Zero, & talked about the news & the year that were. Got out of there about 6.30, 6.45, & went back to my flat. Stripped out of my work-clothes, read a magazine, napped, & up at nine. Showered, put on a nice pair of denim long-pants & button shirt, & drove to the near-by, newly-christened Cafe Hollander location in the Tosa Village (diablosrojos.us). Read there would be karaoke there, & having caught the bug to embarass myself at such while in Toronto -- two nites, at one Irish bar, did Andrew W.K.'s "Party Hard", then Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently" -- I figured, why not take my shamelessness local? I don't have any friends to lose, anyway...
So, I did. But when I got there, the singing hadn't begun, so I took a table on the opposite side of the bar from where the 'oke dj would set up & had a cup of chili, some fries, & two hot-toddies & part of one Strongbow Cider. Also tried to pip up to the off-duty bar-staff & their friends/sig-others playing Scrabble just behind & talking amongst themselves. Alack, I was not cool enough for their sceneasta circle-jerk.
Damn me.
But my nite was not lost. 10.30 pm, I hear the music playing (Fernando). The tones were dulcet (Fernando). So, I picked up my Strongbow & took a seat in the back. Ended up getting chatted up by a couple there with about eight, nine other people, & they tried to talk me into singing Tom Petty. (No dice. But more on that, later.) Did commit to sing, though. Didn't go up 'til after the cajolers had departed, shortly before midnite's strike.
Too, in the space between venturing over, & singing, I struck up what I hoped would be more than a conversation (Fernando... I mean, Mr Jones) with whom I have to presume the only unattached member of the party of 11 or so. Doll named Corinne, 26, teacher at a parochial campus (& Polish Catholic (a favourite of mine, more the Polish than the Catholic, though Cath is cool too)), with either a master's or almost to that point. She was a little thick, but in that, quite chesty, with a low-cut top... & even better, no obvious underwear. Her unbelted jeans were sagging down the bum, revealing a rather tantalizing length of crack... & I was hoping I could well be in.
Not in the butt, mind you -- I've actually never done anal, though I have done analingus & fingering of same locale -- but in, in general. Get some New Year's strange &/or dates in the New Year.
We did seem to hit it off, though maybe we only shared a love of Strongbow -- she was drinking it well before I met her, & I, well before meeting her -- but whatever. We talked, shared biographic data, & when it came time for me to sing (ABBA (!) -- "Dancing Queen") she joined me, even though her voice had been taxed by at least four previous performances, including "Goodbye, Earl" (a filthy, filthy, awesome song), something from Lady Gaga, & Tom Petty's "American Girl".
I was having about as much success chatting up a broad as I had had back in April '05, chatting up two sisters from Eau Claire, Emily, 23, & Kelly, 20, undergrads at the time at UW-Milwaukee, taking a break from studying for finals at Comet Cafe toward close. & after my & Cori's sort-of duet, sitting down, I proffered (creepily, I'm sure, even I didn't want to be), "How 'bout a nite-cap?"
Shortly thereafter, she went to the bathroom with her mates, including her older sister, but reminded me not to leave, they'd be coming back. & they did. But I did nothing. Even when she demuringly but obviously turned back to me, smiled, & gave a little wave as she left with the other seven or eight in her pary.
Didn't even ask for her number. Didn't even think she'd give me a wrong/fake number, let alone a real one.
Did I blow it? Did I demonstrate a certain self-loathing &/or misogyny, with my perception of myself & how the opposite sex views its potential for amour?
Help me, Ea. I'm an aging nobody, & I can't get laid.
