A man that I’m sort-of dating invited me on a mini vacation for a weekend of eating, drinking and… gambling.
If you take the 101 North out of Ventura to Santa Barbara, and then drive toward Solvang on Highway 154 you will eventually arrive at Chumash.
We hit a little bit of traffic, but arrived at the casino late Friday night and spent the evening on slots, while slamming Jack and Cokes and losing our money.
The next day, Saturday, we walked around the resort, and enjoyed a lovely dinner. During the dinner I jokingly said, “We should get plastered tonight, and then find different people to hook up with, take them back to our hotel and hump them in front of each other.”
Let me slow the locomotive so you can hop aboard. In case you don’t know me: if my suggestion sounds crazy, 99% of the time it’s probably just a joke. Personally, the thought of finding a random-swinger couple and slamming nasties in a foursome kinda makes me want to yak.
What I didn’t realize at this point was that my He Pal silently took me seriously.
After dinner, we went out to the casino and started our downward slip-and-slide on booze, plinky-plink sounds, and bright flashing lights.
Moreover, we continued to get progressively shit-face wasted.
We found a small bank of machines and a fantastic cocktail waitress, and began to play some slots. Then, an old man who looked like Eric Clapton in the 70′s sat between us at the machines.
I walked away to go to the restroom and told my date, “Hey, I’ll be right back.”
When I returned, my He Friend was gone.
The old dude tipped his ball cap and said, “Your buddy said he’d be right back, and that he was just going to pee pee with his wee wee.”
Yep. That sounded like my Guy.
Then 70′s Clapton man started talking at me, “Listen, don’t ever compromise yourself.”
I didn’t know what to make of this little gold nugget he was passing my way, so I said, “That’s great advice.”
“No, I said don’t ever compromise yourself,” he said, and it felt forceful this time. He told me that he was married for 20 years and she died two years ago, and that he’ll never find another. He said I could find love anywhere, with anyone, and that men come and they go. That I didn’t have to fall for the first guy that came along, and he repeated his mantra, that I should never compromise myself.
“I’m not compromising,” I said, not quite sure why I was continuing the conversation. I turned to the cocktail waitress and grabbed my Bud Light.
“Why are you drinking Bud Light?” 70′s Clapton asked.
“Because I like the taste.”
“Stand up.”
I stood.
“Mmm… you are hot. You don’t need to be drinking Bud Light.”
This guy had Date Night Blog written all over him. “Dude, I can’t drink Budweiser. It tastes like urine.”
“You need to be drinking Michelob.”
“Would you prefer I melted margarine and just drank that from the plastic tub?”
We were quiet for a few minutes. I was sucking down my beer, waiting for my co-pilot to get back from his leak.
Then 70′s Clapton started telling me about his new girlfriend. He said, “I tell her every day that she’ll never live up to what I lost 2 years ago.”
I nearly spit up. “You tell her? Jesus! How do you think that makes her feel?”
He swatted my comment away, “I don’t care! She needs to know!”
“That’s hurtful.”
I started looking for my dude, but that dude was no where to be seen.
“Forget about him,” Clapton said.
“No, I need to find out where he is.”
“You are fine as hell. Let me buy you a drink.”
At this point, I guzzled the remainder of my beer and went on a hunt. After 10 minutes of frustration, I finally found my weekend HeMan leaning one cocky arm against a machine and himself into an older blond lady who was laughing at some joke he’d just smeared all over her like a cheap latex condom.
I punched his shoulder and said, “I’d like to leave.”
I didn’t wait for him because I didn’t want to have a discussion in the middle of a casino. I didn’t want to be that couple. I turned around and walked toward the exit. He followed me out the door, calling my name.
I told my man friend that I was pissed because he left me talking to the old geezer so he could hit on chicks. And why was he doing that when we came together, as a team?
He replied, through the slur and stink of Jack Daniels: “We had an agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“You said you wanted to make out with other people tonight and get nasty, and I’m just fulfilling my half of the deal.”
I almost shit my pants. “What? I was kidding!”
He replied, “I don’t know when you’re kidding. Half the time you seem like you’re serious.”
“Also,” I added, “What kind of crap were you telling that old man at the bar when I was gone? He was telling me not to compromise myself and that there are tons of better guys out there? Did you say something rude about me?”
“What? I would never say a bad thing about you.”
Bad idea, Mari. Man friend went from aloof, to incredibly pissed and ready to beat up 70′s Eric Clapton.
I felt like I was in the Navy again, holding off some dude full of testosterone and trying to prevent a fight between sailors. At the same time, a couple of guys walked out the double glass doors to have a smoke as my male locomotive tried to choo-choo through me.
“Get ready to bail me out of jail,” He said. “I’m going to teach that old fuck a lesson!”
“Ask these guys if that sounds reasonable!” I said, trying to diffuse a situation I feel I caused. I leaned with all my weight, like a barricade.
“Okay,” He said, or slurred. He went to the two guys and said, “Hey, guys… man to man. Can I get your opinion on something?”
The heavy-set bald guy with tattoos running up the length of both arms said, “Sure.”
“So my friend here was telling me that this old man was hitting on her and telling her she shouldn’t compromise herself. What would you do? Would you kick his ass?”
The big bald guy blinked at my date and said, “I’d let it go, man. I mean, it’s not worth it. She’s obviously not upset.”
“Thanks,” my dude said. “You’re a good guy.”
I then took Hefriend aside and set the matter straight: there was no agreement and I was kidding. There is no single cell in the structure of my entire body that ever wants to tandem another couple and have a swinger party. And didn’t he know me? After all this time? That I’m not the freaky type who wants to see the person I’m with making out/having sex with another person?
He seemed reluctant, but eventually agreed.
Then, like a puppy with broken legs, one of the sweetest guys in the world (when he’s sober, of course) followed me down the hallway, slamming into walls and slumping against the elevator doors; up to our 5th floor room.
Inside, he stripped his clothes so fast that it came off like a one-piece suit. He did a ballerina twirl and landed on the bed, face down in the sheets, and his bare-white ass up and facing me.
Goodnight, Moon.
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
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