By C. Anderson Guthrie © 2006
This woman wasn't the kind of woman you bring home to momma, oh no -- she was the kind of woman that takes out her teeth before giving an alleyway blowjob. You know, the considerate type.
She spun around on the barstool, sloppily leaned back, propped her elbows on the bar, turned towards me and asked a question.
"Hey man, how oad are you?" she slurred.
My eyes fixed on the 1/4" gap between her front teeth, without trying to draw attention to the fact that I was mesmerized. Kind of like when you're trying not to stare at some massive cleavage, only these tits were teeth that didn't quite meet in the middle. I couldn't help thinking about grandma.
My short response was meant to effectively end the conversation before it got up to speed, but she didn't take the hint.
"You gots any kids?"
If I had been a little bit quicker and a little less drunk, I would've spun some lie about how my wife was at home, waiting for her water to break announcing the arrival or our third beautiful baby. But, the only thing I could think of under such pressure was "No." Bright one, this.
I scanned the bar looking for an out, a reason to get the fuck away from this woman without having to tell her to get the fuck away from me. It was bar poker night, but I had arrived late, after the tournament had already started and was unable to use that as an excuse. Also, I couldn't just leave; the bartender had just poured me another hefe, and I wasn't very well going to leave a full beer until it was safe in my stomach.
So, I hunched on my stool, took an enormous, disinterested drink from my pint of Widmer Hefe, and tried to wait her out. Tried not to make eye contact. Tried to look gay.
It didn't work.
"Cuz youse a real nith lookin' man, thath what I'm tryin' to thay. Yee-up." She lithped.
If you've never seen an overweight, drunk, gap-toothed, 45-year old slob try to act coy, consider yourself lucky. Me, I'm not so lucky, never have been. And let me tell you, folks, it ain't pretty. I think the word that popped into my head that night was "disgusting."
That's just a small portion of my Monday night. After getting all moved into my new place, I decided to go on the hunt for a new bar. A new "my bar" kind of place. I stopped at five or six bars that night, and I can tell you which bars aren't going to be my bar, that's for sure. It isn't going to be the place with the $5.50 pints of Bud Light. It isn't going to be the place across from a certain local gentlemen's establishment, even though I witnessed one of the talent (a little chubby) stuffing her face, pre-shift, with greasy chicken wings and Grand Marnier, and that might be indicative of the kinds of stories just waiting to be pulled from there.
On second thought, I'm not going to cross that bar off my list quite yet.
My bar isn't going to be the place with cheap Widmer on tap, either; I'm afraid just too afraid of Gummy The Lush. But the search continues, and it's not going to stop until I find a place where I don't feel like I'm going to get rolled or propositioned for sex on the way to the bathroom.
I save those things for the Girlfriend.
C. Anderson Guthrie is a writer and poker player from Minneapolis, MN.