Guess who was at the Holy Grail last night? Annette, of course. I remembered her on account of being treated so incredibly shoddily last time.
I noticed her because when you are 45 you tend to filter out the 20-somethings, leaving only the one (sometimes two) suitably aged women there. She was doing exactly the same thing to some other shmuck that she had one to me – dragged the guy by his wrist out onto the dance floor, and then danced with someone else.
He was very unlike me, physically. I’m shortish, pot belly, bitch tits, hairy, pale, and with twiglike arms. This guy was built like a tree trunk – arms like fucking clubs. Substantially grey. Late middle aged lumberjack. I spoke to him, cause I have been reading on the ‘net how us guys gots to stick together.
He was very drunk. “That chick”, I pointed at her, “pulling you onto the floor and dancing with someone else: she did that to me a couple of months ago.” He replied … well, frankly I’m not sure what. It was to the effect of how he had more self-respect than to fuck her, anyway. (Annette is a slightly pudgy used to be pretty middle aged woman. She has a waist, but only just. I mean: I’d do her. But I’m me.)
Few minutes latter, she was dragging him onto the floor again by the wrist. “You fucking pussy”, I thought to myself. “Still, if he gets laid – he’s getting laid and I’m not.”
I drank. Later, Annette shmoozed Tim, the manager, blocking the door with her frame and her enormous fucking handbag. Seriously – It was bigger than her. What the fuck? I manage to carry everything in a wallet and a couple of pockets. I think they keep a few spare pairs of shoes in ’em. Just in case.
There’s a few girls that like her are not in hospitality but like to hang around the business owner and managers: Toni, Vonne. They are women with investments, with their own businesses. Naturally, they gravitate to the company of investors and business owners like themselves to talk about things they have in common. Except – obviously – Ian runs millions of dollars worth of business with with $100K in inventory (just guessing), commercial premises, and a dozen or more employees. Not quite the same thing as mixing up aromatherapy candles in your back room and flogging them over the internet.
But if it makes the ladies happy to pretend, the men seem pleased to oblige them.
I drank some more. The bar closed. I watched the people leaving as I nursed my Coopers Pale, watched Annette get into a taxi alone and go – presumably – home.
Annette, if you ever read this, I have noticed that you like to try to dance with beautiful gay guys way too young for you. No-one is fooled. If you simply came out as a fag hag and got on the floor by yourself without dragging some hapless shmuck out with you for an excuse, then I would have a smidgen more respect for you.
But only a smidgen.