Valentine's Day, that wonderful day of the year in which I find myself alone, horny and invariably drunk. For 15 consecutive years it's been more or less the same story...the only action I get is from my Right Hand Man (Baby - you were amazing last night, really, WOW! Also, thanks for the Roses!).
The night started with me getting my cardio on at the gym. It had been 5 days since the last time I worked out, and I was feeling fat. You know when you drive a car with a tight suspension over potholes and yawning expansion gaps in the pavement and part of your body jiggles? No? Well, I do.
To the gym I went and was throughly eye-fucked by a guy on the elliptical next to mine. Later, when I was changing post-workout, he afforded me the courtesy of staring at me while leaning against a wall, arms crossed, loosely wearing a towel and a desperate "please, fuck me, I'll even pretend to lose your number the next day". How romantic!
Once home I showered then made a stiff Bacardi & Coke Zero and smoked some Camels. One of my hetero buddies called and asked me what I was doing. I responded, "Wrapping your Valentine's Day present, silly". When asked what it was I replied "you'll have to come over and unzip my jeans with your teeth if you want to find out". Again, how romantic!
After more bullshitting we got done to the business of which bar we would get shit faced at. We settled on a lovely place called the Wild Goose, not for the ambiance, but rather because on Thursday nights they sling domestic bottles of domestic beer for $1. Yes, were are whores. Drunk ones at that (or would soon be).
Hetero friend #1 would pick me up in 20 minutes, and then we would pick up Hetero Friend #2 and #3 (they are Roomies) - and #2 informed us that Hetero Friend's #4 & #5 would be meeting us at said location. If last night was an action movie, it could have been titled "5 Dudes and Homo - On a Mission To Get Drunk" (is that too wordy?).
Approximately 25 minutes after arriving, our table (which we were lucky to obtain - last one there) looked like this:
Let's not even discuss the $3 landfill-esque pile of nachos I silently devoured while watching the Bulls game...
Other than drinking, eating and talking shit, the 6 of us took turns shooting pool. Now, I fucking rock the billiards....or at least I used to.
There was a time when all I needed to do was splay my cock on the table and the outcome of the game would be decided. But my game has grown rusty over the least year. I still won the first 3 games I played, but my victories lacked the "in your fucking face bitch" variety that I had become accustomed to.
Alas, I journeyed outdoors for a smoke. The night was bitterly cold, but my friends were being telling funny beer-fueled jokes/stories, and it felt good to "be with the guys" and all that.
Later in the night I noticed a guy sitting at the bar who looked just like Ziggy from Season 2 of The Wire (please tell me someone reading this knows who I am referring to). He looked like this, but skinnier and more cracked out:
Somehow he ended up shooting pool with Hetero Friend #2, whom he handily defeated. I was called upon to challenge the newcomer. Now, usually when random men shoot pool in a bar, it's customary to at the least shake hands and/or introduce on another.
But "Ziggy" would have none of the friendly banter so typical to such a scenario. He coolly racked the balls and implored me to break. I produced a loud "TWACK!" but failed to drop anything. I blamed it all on the pencil-eraser head tip on the tree branch that posed as a pool cue, and will continue to do so for the time being.
When we were shooting I observed additional "Ziggy-like" behavior, such as staring a inanimate objects, furiously chewing gum while drinking beer and going to the bathroom more often than necessary, even for someone drinking shitty beer. What he was on still eludes me, but the details were not of particular import.
While I was trying, in vain, to show off, a fratty type dude rocking a Vincent Price 'stache and a scarf asked if he could play winner. Zig confidently answered YES, as if him winning was a foregone conclusion. Well guess what Zig - you done got SERVED!
Still, at this point continuing to prove a useless point was of little concern to me, and I joined my friends in their beer drinking antics. You know that line from the film Magnolia, "you might be done with the past but the past isn't done with you?".
This was represented in the appearance of the Vincent Price and his 2 fratty friends, who looked like less attractive versions of this:
Note to straight boys on the prowl in a bar on Valentine's Day: wearing baggy sweatpants and ripped hoodies, no matter how color coordinated with your dirty sneakers, will not get you laid. Nor will it encourage me to shoot pool with you. That being said, a conversation not unlike this one soon took place:
FRATTY #1: "Who am I playing?"
ZIGGY: (pointing towards me): "He won - it's his table to lose".
ME: "I'm good, you guys have fun".
FRATTY #1: "Naw, it's cool man, let's shoot. Me and my friend against you and your friend (meaning Ziggy)".
ME: "I'm, good, thanks".
ZIGGY: (suddenly animate): "but it's your table man!".
ME: "I'm good, you guys have fun".
FRATTY #1: "dude. let's. shoot. pool".
ME: "I'M GOOD YOU GUYS HAVE FUN".
Despite my slight ability to protest my fate, I relented, and with Zig as my partner, we took on the young guns/fratty ill dressed boys. Zig's high must have faded; he missed several shots he should have made and the task of learnin' these kids fall upon my shoulders. I knocked out 5 shots in quick succession, but missed the last solid, leaving a juicy corner shot un-did.
Fratty #2 missed and I assumed Zig would clean it up; alas, he did not. He looked uninterested in his game, and as such, the fratty kids beat us like red headed step children. This was a cruel defeat, one that reminded me of not only my age, but my place in a shitty bar, "alone" on a Greeting Card Holiday, and one that should not have occurred.
I consoled myself with a shot of Jameson, as did Hetero Friend #1 in an act of solidarity. As it was nearing Midnight, we asked for the tab for the table; $56 and change. Though no math scholar I quickly surmised the number of $1 beers that had been emptied in little more than 2 1/2 hours.
Goddamn. It was time to retire...
