At Least They're Committed

I’ve never asked a man. Never needed to and why would I want to?

I’m not pretty. I’m just blond and athletic and friendly. I have a dorky-ass smile and my cheekbones are way out of whack. Whatever I am must be enough. “I’ve never hit on a man,” I thought today while walking to the bus trying to ignore some 50-ish dude who slowed down to watch me.

Never had to. Never once have had any will or inclination to renege on a promise I made to Marny and myself that night in the bar on the corner of 30th and Orchard. The night the two of us girls would end up spending with five exotic male dancers.

Marny, which might or might not be her real name but I don’t really remember because she kind of came and went from my workplace, was a doelike brunette. She had olive skin, a light brown bob and Bambi eyes. We worked at J.C. Penney’s together while waiting for our writing careers to take off and on this particular night we thought it would be fun — no, rather a great, decadent, splendid, devious adventure — to check out the exotic male dancers at a hangout that went through more names than I’ve gone through men. As far as we knew, this was a first for this 30,000 population town: hot oiled, sweaty man types parading for our pleasure rather than the females always preening and parading for the benefit of the boys.

No regular men would be allowed in until 10 p.m., so before the dancers got there (the troupe was a step or two below Chippendale’s, maybe something like Chip ‘n’ Dales) the women were dancing with each other. It was the second time I got hit on by a woman, which is neither here nor there, being about 22 it just surprised me at the time.

At long last the dancers emerged, clad in that oh-so-provocative tight, tight tearaway attire. Cowboys, policemen, firemen, scientists, all so proper in front but, like the mullets they wore, pumpin’ party animals in the back. Dancing to Loverboy, gyrating to Bowie, their hips thrashing and pulsing, tempting and teasing the bevy of screaming broads before them as they stripped away plastic and polyester.

Flailing, screeching women our age on up were held back from the dance floor by bad-ass bouncers, but were strategically allowed to come forward if they flashed the cash to slip into a dancer’s G-string in exchange for a . . . (Yeah, Marny and I were standing back laughing our asses off, squealing actually at this) . . . kiss!!! These sorry @$$ bitches were sticking fives and tens down these guys’ crotches for a freakin’ kiss. All I could think of, as the guys twirled and mingled and sorrily sucked face, was “Christ! The germs!!” (My mom would have been so proud.)

Know what? We had really thought this was going to be cool. Now all we could do was shake our heads, giggle, grimace and jump up and down in morbid disgust and delight when some chick really laid it on some poor guy.

“Marny!” I bellowed above Turn me Loose, “If I ever, EVER have to pay some good looking man to kiss me, you hunt me down and SHOOT ME!”

And we gagged and guffawed and when the stage lights at last went down and the bar lights went up and the local men were allowed in to reap the bounty of wet women seasoned by the Chips and Dales, we sneaked out. The last thing we wanted was to be subjected to Regular Joes slinking through the spoils.

Marny and I had driven in her little dark blue Gremlin. She was fumbling with her keys and we were so busy with our “Oh, my Gods” and “Can you believe thats?” and “Those women were just total freaks!” that we almost didn’t notice them. Five striking young men in blue jeans and suede jackets of various colors and styles stepped in front of us.

“Um,” Tossled Brown Hair, 5-10, interjected to get our attention. We froze. “I know this is kinda weird, but we got done early and our manager isn’t at the hotel and he’s not planning on picking us up for an hour so, um . . . ”

Blonde Swayze, 6-2, stepped up, “Can we please, please get a ride to our motel from you guys?”

We were stunned . . . no, more like “in shock.” OK, so this is EVERY dude’s fantasy, right? But we’re not dudes. We looked at each other and then looked around.

Other women were leaving, women tittering and giggling and pointing and piling past us and here we stood with a bunch of guys with very soft sweet, puppy dog eyes that could have asked ANY of these chicks for help and  just about anything else and were guaranteed of getting it. But they asked us. And you know why? We didn’t have to say it out loud. Well, obviously it was because these guys needed a ride to their hotel room.

“I have a Gremlin,” Marny said quietly.

Have you ever packed five men and two women into a Gremlin? An adventure to say the least and you tend to get to know each other pretty quickly. They came from all different backgrounds, some were dancing as a summer job while they went to college, others didn’t know what they were going to do, one was a model and wanted to get into acting.

The motel was definitely no Ritz. The company they danced for hadn’t exactly gone all out for these guys. One room, two double beds and a cot. Yeah, they invited us in and, yeah, we accepted. Marny and I flopped on the bed with one or two of the guys while the others got drinks from a cooler and sat in puffy worn chairs. Before they’d even invited us in, we knew we were all in for an incredible, incredible threesome! The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Hang ‘Em High and High Plains Drifter one after the other on late night TV!

We drank a couple beers, recounted our favorite action movies, hushed each other when the best lines were coming up and shared stories on life and home. I felt honored that Wavy Haired McQueen, 5-8, shared the proofs of nude photos of him to be published in Playgirl magazine and asked my opinion of which were best (OMG was that guy hung!). I was very professional, pointing out what I liked best about certain positions and what I didn’t think were quite as flattering about others. No giggling, no innuendo. He listened intently, shaking his head in agreement on some and asking more detailed questions on others. The other guys stood up and did their best Clint Eastwood imitations and whistled along to Spaghetti Western tunes.

We didn’t make it through High Plains Drifter. It was 4 a.m. and we were exhausted. Marny and I got incredible hugs all around and we all wished each other the very, very best in life as we pulled away knowing full well we’d never see them again — none of us even having an inclination of asking.

Know why they asked us for a ride home? Know why we gave it to them? They didn’t want for anything any more than we did.

When on days like today my guy friends are subjected to (or, more likely, open themselves up to and possibly feed their egos upon) the blatant sexual innuendo and invitation from these sorry ass, needy women, I flash back to that night. Naw, I don’t mind hearing about it and yeah, it makes me laugh as much as it did in the bar on 30th and Orchard.

But that’s not for me. No. No. I don’t anticipate Marny leaping from behind a pillar with an Uzi today any more than I did 20 years ago. Not now. Not ever. Paying for kisses? Hitting on men? As if!

No need. For not wanting, I had one of the best nights of my life.