Friday Night Lights Out

Friday night in Anytown, USA. High school football is king for students and former jocks lying about their glory days on the gridiron. (What the fuck is a gridiron?) Since I know more about quantum physics than football the local dive was my destination along with the other drifters and losers, my intimate circle without any intimacy.I’m Iris Periwinkle,  mid-thirties, no Prince Charming for me. Not because I’m picky, because I’m a lesbian. After showering, I put on my still-clean-from-last-week bar clothes;  gray cotton leggings, Kentucky Wildcat pullover, blue Nike  sneakers along with black push-em-up, push-em-up, way-up bra, and matching bikini panties in case I get lucky ( guffaw… I make myself laugh sometimes.)Walking into the noisy Stagger Inn,  a honky-tonk bar full of honkeys,  no one greeted me with cheers a la Norm. But I still felt at home in this dump with its peanuts and bullets on the floor, once even a severed penis when Lorena Bobbitt worked the door. Immediately the blur of neon PBR signs and the clattering of plastic beer mugs began to overwhelm me.Nor was the endless loop of Buck Owens helping. No pleasantries were exchanged with other patrons. I was like a ghost, unseen and only heard annoyingly like the faint buzzing of a mosquito inside the ear canal.  Despite being a semi-regular I always felt as out of place here as Homer Simpson at a Mensa convention. I motioned to Beşevler escort my favorite barmaid, Lisa. She’s my favorite because she laughs at my lame-ass jokes and tolerates my even lamer flirting. The gorgeous brunette also doesn’t giggle when I order a Zima as the others do. It doesn’t hurt that I tip lavishly, like a Tokyo businessman at a Sailor Moon cosplay.Tonight, I switched to a Mojito, savoring the minty aroma, masking the pervading scent of testosterone and chewing tobacco. It felt good to be out, away from my house where I normally sit home alone more often than McCaulay Culkin, stoned, talking to my dog and Amazon Echo and laughing maniacally at chick flicks and Benny Hill. Quickly I made my way to my favorite spot, a small, lonely oak table in a dark corner. How could I feel such overpowering sorrow in a place full of raucous laughter? That is my mutant ability. My second rhetorical question; why am I even here? I rarely drink and with Willie on the jukebox, I was reminded it must be 420 somewhere. But this bar also has good memories. This was where I first heard Guy Clark sing “Desperados Waiting on a Train,” a sorrowful song that reminded me of my deceased dad and I am grateful for that. That thought fueled my melancholic smile as “Tears of a Clown” began to blare through cheap, blown speakers.It’s not like I don’t have friends. I do but they Çankaya escort bayan tend to tiptoe around me like I’m on suicide watch. Oh sure, I once gobbled eighty-two sleeping pills, but it was an accident. I thought they were Sweet Tarts.  That incident capped off a traumatic breakup with a kind, loving woman who could no longer cope with my never-ending insecurities and ugly as Sid Haig (too soon?) jealousy.I buried my sorrow and began fucking any woman who moved… and a couple who didn’t. I used to be the life of the party, but it was the Republican Party so that’s not saying much. Now I sit alone sipping a watered-down cocktail, living in mortal fear of even a microsecond of eye contact.Still, I managed to glance up long enough to spot HER standing at the end of the bar like a lighthouse, both beckoning and warning of impending doom. My type: leggy, languid, long dirty-blonde hair. (Although with my need I could easily settle for a little person with red dreadlocks.) I would have hurdled my way to her but I also have an intense fear of rejection stemming from a near-tragic heart transplant experience. So I needed a positive sign for reinforcement. Perhaps music.Bruce’s “She’s the One” played but it was too vague to be helpful. I waited. Glancing at her surreptitiously,  she stood casually elegant in her black low back top with mid-thigh maroon Escort Cebeci skirt. In those brief seconds, she spurned several male suitors, increasing my hopes she played for my team. I could only hope because my team was in the midst of a terrible losing streak. Finally, Lady Gaga’s “Shallow” played. Since I’m as shallow as a wading pool I knew it was kismet. The tantalizing dance of seduction could now begin. Staggering to my feet, she seemed miles away, not the twenty feet she actually was. I began walking unsteadily like Karloff’s mummy of yore, stumbling and shuffling toward tonight’s true love. My progress impeded by the so-called dancers. Weaving through them like Jack Torrance through a maze at the Overlook Hotel, my heart felt like a Ginger Baker frantic drum solo, palms sweatier than Trump’s as he awaits legal advice from his court jester, Rudy Giuliani. My optimism waned as the watching bikers chanted, “dead woman walking.”Taking a deep breath, I approached shaken and timid, extending my hand, “Hello. I’m Iris. I’m so lucky I’m not diabetic because you are the sweetest thang I’ve ever seen.” (With a smooth line like that how can I possibly still be unattached? It’s a mystery even meddling kids can’t solve.)The vision replied, “I’m Alexa. (Oh God, the same name as my Echo whom I chat with each night. This truly is fate!) We shook. She grimaced like a purple McDonald’s character as she felt my clammy palm. My eyes transfixed to her dazzling scarlet lips which led my cheeks to chameleon into the same shade, noticeable to all. My legs became as shaky as a cheap card table but I regrouped. “I have two questions, m’lady.””Ask away, gorgeous, ” she said, offering a flirtatious smile.