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DistantThunder -> A Bit Of Advice Before Meetings... (3/5/2007 8:25:13 AM)
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The night held within its bosom, all that electrical excitement that bring forth those butterflies and emotions that were last felt when I was thirteen and waiting for my date's father to arrive to pick me up to deliver us at our date destination and a threat that STILL wakes me up in the dpeths of dark nights.
We had been speaking online for several weeks, secret desires divulged and now we had arrived at THAT point, the point where we chose a meeting place, my identification had been shared and a few other details such as blood types, past partners, number of pets, the gross national product of Bora Bora and I believe I even revealed that I have a habit of snorting when I laugh.
In my zeal to reveal I had overlooked a few things, such as... asking HER any questions, but we can get back to that little fuax pas in a moment.
So there I sat on the barstool using the thin red straw to make little whirlpools in my drink, wondering in silence why they NEVER give grown up straws to people in bars. Smoke from the multiple cigarettes had made a dream-like haze over everything, the palor on everyone's faces was similar to something out of a 1942 gum show detective movie. It was the realization of the movie bit there that caused me to suddenly believe that everyone seemed to fit the arch-typical stereotypes. The four foot tall round faced bartender, his sleeves rolled up, a dirty towel hanging over his wrist, his face embossed with an unconcerned jaunt with an air of New York dismissal. There were the two guys in the corner, huddled over mis-matched glasses of beer, discussing for all I know, smuggling the Maltese Falcon out of the country passed the Egyptian authorities (Please ignore the fact that I live in Florida... just enjoy the the ride.)
The ambiance was enhanced by the small red glass candles which fluttered in the open air bar and the fans that hung low, causing the smoke in the air to make minature vortexes. Of course, the fan over my head seemed to be stuck on helicopter propeller and it must have been this glitch in the electronics of the fan that caused the little lights embedded in the shell of the device NOT to work hiding me even deeper in darkness. My leg continued to bounce on the edge of the bar, my nerves fraying as the moment drew closer. I asked the bartender if there were any cheeries, this won me a sneer and a small jar of olives slammed down in front of me. I was annoyed by the lack of cheeries, but too hungry to care as my fingers fished out an olive, popping it in my mouth, wincing at the sour taste melting over my tongue, I dare not look at the expiration date, for fear of learning that I had just retrieved an olive from a jar that was last perused by Al Capone in 1936 when he was in Florida looking for a new winter home.
I heard the squell of the hinges on the door, the candles all guttering a chain reaction as the wind blew in, the change in air pressure forcing all the smoke from the ceiling to the floor area and there she stood. Half hidden behind the cigarette haze, she was shadowed in mystery on wonder.
It was at this point that a number of questions emerged that I guess I SHOULD have asked before that moment, like... how tall are you? But in the surreal swirls of toxic clouds I could see she was easily six foot two and that with OUT the heels. Her whiskey blonde hair blew dramatically in front of her face, confounding me once more as her features were still hidden from my view. The black dress she wore clung tight to her strong frame... Now, let me digress a moment here, when I say strong frame, I am NOT speaking metaphorically, as though it was a comparative image to a Greek statue from antiquity... Nooooo... When I say strong frame I mean that the girth of her shoulders was easily equal to a Denver Broncos defensive lineman, but being a man who focuses more on a woman's mind I was still hopeful.
She sauntered through the room pulling the bluish smog behind her, her eyes scanning the room until they fell on me and that is when I was caught in the mental tempest of wondering why even from this distance I could distinctly make out the triangular shadow of the Adam's apple on her throat and the five o'clock shadow was a bit upsetting. It was while I was tilting my head that she began moving forward with a determined purpose. Now, either because of the height of her angle or because of the still fluttering candle light that she didn't see the low hanging fan that I had been sitting beneath when I had found my original perch. In retrospect, I should have taken a seat closer to the door and foregone the drama of dark and shadowy lighting.
The voice was deep and husky and I will admit here, somewhat enticing. "Hi... You must be..."
I guess it was at least partially my fault when the fan, still on airplane propeller mode struck her squarely in the side of the head with a resounding "Whud, whud, whud..." Apparently this was precisely the necessary force needed to dislodge the whiskey blonde wig from her head, sending the coif flying across the bar to ruthlessly attack round faced bartender who went down in a screaming heap as he grasped the base of the wig and it was during the high pitched girlish screaming from the bar tender that I was not there to catch the six foot two femme fatale, who for that moment was caught in the corner of my eye in a horizontal, aerial prone position roughly three feet off the ground, one six inch spike heeled kicking a red globed candled across the room towards the two smugglers who were diving behind chairs, as the other shoe flew across the room, destroying a bottle of bluish liquid, which is probably what I should have been drinking, considering that the contents of the bottle was now eating through the mirror like some form of high grade acid.
This was enough of a distraction to have NOT seen the spiked heel doing a round house kick through the air, connecting with the side of my head, knocking me backwards, my head rebounding off the bar itself, so both of my hands were busy tending wounds to my head, that and the repetative "Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch." To be of any real assistance.
The impact of the body on the floor throwing me at least two feet into the air, this of course limited any assistance I could lend, mid-air acrobatics having never been my forte, by the time I did hit the floor my date for the evening was screaming that she was blind in her left eye, but was calmed when I removed the two inch fake eyelash, the other stuck on the side of the fan and had changed the easy whooshing sound into a high pitched whistle that had me crawling on the floor incase the bolt holding the fins in the air should come lose, sending all the machinery whirling across the room and I have seen enough "Final Destination" movies to know that Death obviously had me fingered for a most unusual and rather humorous end.
During the melee with the wig, the bartender having defended himself with a baseball bat (Apparently hidden behind the bar precisely for moments just like this) could now take advantage of the breach in the violence to call paramedics.
I sat there lending what help I could to my new friend, dabbing at the angry bruise on the side of her... Yeah we will simply stick with "her" at this point... Her deep, husky voice tragically whimpering out... "I guess there are some things we need to talk about."
In my mind I could only say... "YA THINK?!"
And so it was that the date ended with two paramedics, me and the two smugglers, who happened to turn out to be CPA's pretending to be burly bikers, hoisting her onto the gurny as best we could... both legs dragging limpy over the sides. The spiked heel on one of her foot hung to the floor, digging a deep trench into the wood floor as they lifted her into the ambulance and dragged behind her. I returned to my barstool to slam my drink, order three more and slamming those.
The bartender, still in a bit of shock, cleaning the bar off of the broken glass and putting a piece of plastic over the hole that had been melted into the wall giving us a view into the "three for one" bathingsuit store next door... sadly, it was night and it wasn't looking into the dressingrooms, but simply the one piece bathing suits. I put my money on the bar as the bartender gave me sideways glances and if not a sense of respect a definite sense of "Get out of my bar you friggin pervert freak..."
So it was during the wait for the taxi that I had time to consider the number of mistakes I had made. First was in not asking the specific gender of who I was speaking to. There was also the question of why a six foot two person of ANY gender would wear six inch pump heels... PEOPLE I STAND FIVE FOOT SEVEN!!! To simply kiss a woman of this height I would need a staircase, a bucket and lifts.
So my loves, ASK QUESTIONS, seriously, ask A LOT of questions, don't be so afraid of being alone that you forfeit your own safety. If the person on the other end of the computer says "You don't have the right to ask me questions like that." or the perenial "What? You don't trust me?" move on and find someone who IS willing to divuldge their identities and share themselves..
Because, it comes down to your own safety and anyway, the sight of a four foot tall, round bartender being attacked by a five foot mass of blonde hair is enough to scar a person... if not you yourself, the bartender will NEVER be quite right ever again. The only epitaph is that Maxine... do NOT call her Max... and I are now good friends. NO, I have never persued anything else, not because of my fear of being with someone who was once my same gender (The operation went quite well thank you) but because I refuse to tell anyone to get on their knees just to look them in the eyes and I am a much wiser imp.
As always, be safe out there my loves and remember, if you aren't having fun in all of this and smiling like a lotto winner...
You are OBVIOUSLY not doing it right.
Dazvidanya,
D.T.
NOW GO AWAY!!!
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