Monday, August 01, 2005
Skirts, Pubs and Rock and Roll
This evening contained a major first for me.
After church, I swung by Starbucks for a bit of coffee and called co-worker Leslie at around 7.15, asking if she was still interested in going out as we had planned earlier in the week. We'd decided to take a trip across the road to the Saxon Pub, where the always-wonderful Resentments were playing, as they do every Sunday night.
Leslie agreed and told me she'd meet me in a few minutes at the Saxon. So, I bid my co-workers farewell and traipsed across the street and into the dark, crowded bar.
I surveyed the room through the throngs of middle-aged groupies and spied a free booth in the corner. Wasting no time, I scurried through the people and secured the seats for myself and Leslie.
Then a man with silvery hair and glasses approached. He smiled, brushed a piece of fluff off of his tight, white wifebeater and asked, "Is anyone sitting with you?"
"Yes," I said quickly, "I'm waiting on my friend."
He threw me another winning grin. "Mind if I sit till she gets here?"
"Um, okay," I agreed, with the funny feeling that something was a bit off about him.
He sat down and crossed his legs in a quick, easy motion, and as he smoothed his ruffled, floral skirt against his thighs in a come-hither manner, I realised that I may have just made a mistake.
I opted to give my full attention to the door, hoping that Leslie would arrive soon. The waitress squeezed her way through the tables and chairs and came toward our booth.
"What'll y'all have?"
I tried to convey that I was most certainly NOT with the beskirted man opposite me, and ordered a vodka and cranberry. Then I turned my gaze toward the door again.
A moment passed. "So, you seen these guys before?" the man asked.
Don't look, don't look, I thought, but I glanced over anyway. "Oh, yeah," I answered.
"Oh! You must be a regular then!"
"Er... not really a regular. I just know the band because they come into my Starbucks a lot." A little siren went off in my brain. Idiot! Now he knows where you work!
I looked over at the door again, scrutinzing its dingy frame with renewed interest. Thankfully there was silence from the man in the skirt.
Until, without warning, he giggled a bit and said:
"You know, I have a really disgusting habit."
DON'T LOOK. I carefully avoided his glance and answered with the only response that made sense at the time. "Um. Okay."
He must have taken this as encouragement, however, because he leaned over the table and said, "It's horrible, but when I look at women..."
I shifted uncomfortably.
"...I always imagine what they must look like with their clothes off."
I believe my jaw literally dropped at this point and I stared, horrified and revolted. I'd been expecting him to say something like, "I imagine what I'd look like with their clothes on" or something similar -- not an admission that he was probably picturing me naked at that very moment!
"Isn't that disgusting?" he asked, with the air of someone who has just reached the punchline of a joke and expects his audience to laugh heartily.
"YES," I said. "That's a TERRIBLE habit to have!"
"But fun for me!"
AHHHHHHHHH!!! I thought and considered running out of the bar right then, but as I scanned the room, wide-eyed, I noticed that Leslie had come in. I frantically waved her over.
"My friend is here!" I blurted.
She hastened over, sensing my desperation. He got up, straightening his skirt and tucking a cellphone into the elastic waistband.
"Thanks for letting me sit."
"Um. Okay," I said as Leslie slid into the spot he'd vacated. He gave a jaunty wave and strutted off, disappearing into the crowd.
I thought I was safe, now that Leslie had joined me -- but this was not the last I was to see of our skirt-wearing friend.
"Your boyfriend is back," Leslie whispered some time later.
Indeed, he'd snuck up on us. He leaned over the booth bench, where I had my feet propped up. I could tell that he was waiting for me to scoot over and offer him a seat. Fat chance, perv.
"I'm glad to see you still have your clothes on," he said with a little wink.
I stared.
"That's just our little joke."
"YEAH, RIGHT," I said.
I suppose he must have got the hint at last, because he meandered onto the dance floor where he engaged two other young women in a bit of two-step, three beskirted butts sashaying gently in time to the music, before the girls freed themselves of his presence by dancing with each other.
And they probably never even knew the skirtman was imagining them naked.
And that, folks, was the first (and hopefully only) time I've been hit on by a man in a skirt.
| 12:19 AM |
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