An old cowpoke went ridin out one dark and windy day. He sat upon a barstool when he came to end of day. And all at once a mighty herd of red eyed whores he saw. They sauntered over near him and they each stuck in a claw. He raised his eyes to heaven and he thanked the Lord above, cause he was spending his last dime on booze and not on love. Yippieeye Yea! Yippeeye Yo! Beefeater up with olive. He ordered some hors d’oeuvres, pate campagne and baguette. He sipped on his martini, one real cool sumbitch, you bet. All the lounge lizards moved away from him real slow, cussin and mutterin in frustration and in heat. When they got to their own barstools at the other end of the bar, they all agreed that this cool dude was not this night’s fresh meat. FRESH MEAT! FRESH MEAT! They all like to hunt fresh meat. You can tell when you’re in a place like that by reading the women’s tee shirt inscriptions. When some big old farm woman comes over wearing a shirt that says, “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy”, you’re in the right place.
This scene is repeated every night in thousands of bars around the country and around the world. Today’s old cowpoke comes ridin in on a motorcycle more often than a horse. But at the end of the day he probably smells the same as if he had been on a horse. Heat and dirt and sweat produce a certain unmistakable masculine aroma. It’s the testosterone signature. If they could bottle it, they’d make a bloody fortune. All that froo froo shit from Ralph Lauren and Karl Lagerfeld is just dawg piss by comparison. Real men smell like primal sexual urges at critical mass. You can always start your intimacy in the shower and get the dirt off before you consume each other. Every sexual woman knows that. No biker would ever take a shower before hitting the bar and checking out the evening’s potentialities. Wash off that testosterone smell? Are you nuts? Nothing ruins an evening like bathing too soon.
The pheromonal microbursts catalyzed by that effluvia suffuse the social setting like adding fresh herbs to a delicate sauce. Tumescence blossoms like a gathering storm. The clouds of lust and palpably burgeoning hyperglandularity announce the imminent lightening. Hot damn! Bring on the whirlwind!
Now this old cowboy would have pulled up at a somewhat upscale bar if they served pate and baguette. Hell, most biker bars can’t make a martini. And the whores in an upscale bar may not really be as rough as the whores in a real biker bar. The whores in an upscale joint don’t slam you on the ground, rip off your clothes and ride you like a rented mule. They have lawyers for that. But the message is true and reliable. The chemistry is still the same. The cowboy’s success will grow more if he is reserved and understated and just lets his attitude do the talking. Happy eyes and an occasional shy/sly smile will be all he needs. The ability to blush on demand and say things like “Shucks, Maam” will put him in total command of the place. It may also get him beat up by one or more of the guys he is displacing, so he needs to exude an aura of indestructibility. That old thousand yard stare helps. He will almost never have to prove anything if he doesn’t respond to baiting by the other guys, but if he does, he has to take one guy out in less than three seconds. The others will then leave him alone. Fresh Meat!!
In an even slightly upscale bar nobody is gonna mess with this cowboy. So any evening will be very enjoyable. It’s too bad that promiscuity is so dangerous these days. No cowboy in his right mind is gonna get it on with someone he just met unless he’s just plain crazy. There aint no such thing as a prophylactic. What goes around these days can get at you through, over or around one of those things in a flash. Afrottage kills. The difference between true love and herpes is that herpes is forever.
Since all you can do is carry on non-carnal conversation, having drinks and dinner with women as you travel about aint cheatin. You just have to leave it at the table. That’s not a very realistic statement. A few drinks, a good meal, wine and good conversation will do more to undermine a man’s judgment than almost anything I can imagine. The more interesting the woman, the more beautiful and desirable she is. And the dumber you are, the more pliable you become as she reassures you that you’re really great. You have to remember that your penis is a gear shift handle. When it becomes erect, you shift gears into STUPID!
Of course, there’s always the maxim of the traveling man. No one is married fifty miles from home. Once you get fifty miles out of town, the Italian rules apply – A tavola e a letto non ce rispetto – At the table and in bed it’s every man for himself. This, of course, does not apply to me because I aint married. But somehow I just have to find a way to raise hell without becoming health compromised. I mean, it’s enough that I am in love with the dry martini. Maybe I shouldn’t press my luck. But, like the rat crouched in front of a trap, that cheese sure looks great and smells wonderful. But wait – there’s gonna be cheese wherever I go – I don’t need this cheese – move on.
The ultimate remedy for anyone who likes martinis – the ultimate safety net- the birth control method that has never been prohibited by any church – is just to keep on drinking em. The more you drink, the better they taste, until you arrive at total erectile dysfunction. WHOOPIE!!! Reminds me of that good old country song, “Oh His Name May Be Richard, But They Call Him Whiskey Dick”. One thing’s for sure. You can’t shoot pool with a rope.
But as long as you don’t intend actually to be intimate with some casual, chance met lady of one hour’s tenure, an entire universe of saloon socializing theatre lies before you. The stress of having to prove the potentialities that you portray is utterly relieved. You don’t have to respond responsibly to the question, “Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to meet me?” You can shyly smile and deflect the gambit with subtle indirection that leaves the suggestion of arousal hanging there, an attractive nuisance. She isn’t likely to grab your crotch and discover the rolled up pair of sweat sox in your briefs.
Dr. Phil would say that such behavior evidences serious emotional issues of inadequacy, narcissism, sadistic tendencies, antisocial pathology and that you are simply an inconsiderate boor to be taking advantage of a situation of innocent socializing and translating it into aggressive sexual suggestion for manipulative purposes. He’s too full of himself anyway – fuck him. He makes a living on the proposition that everyone is fucked up and needs counseling. What would you expect from such a person? Now if you actually obtained sex through aggressive misrepresentation of your capabilities, that would indeed evidence serious emotional issues of inadequacy, narcissism, sadistic tendencies and antisocial pathology. But this is not in that context – we’re just playing games here that will not be allowed to go beyond theatre. Think about it. A woman who took you to her bed because you represented yourself to be a living functional equivalent of her Naughty Nikki Strawberry Jello Dong Jack Rabbit, that she keeps in her night table drawer, would throw you out the moment the sweat sox fell out of your briefs and your true configuration was revealed. No harm, no foul, right? This aint going anywhere. It’s theatre. No mere mortal man can compete with a Naughty Nikki Strawberry Jello Dong Jack Rabbit anyway, or so the adverts for it say. If you ask any woman to compare a sexual device with a real live man, be prepared for a litany of some duration. Think about it.
Truth to tell, we men are oft put upon by the fair gender who seek either dinner, jewelry or a participatory share in our gene pool. And the physicality of their campaigns is at least the equivalent of any puffing engaged in by men. They also, in many instances, have the connivance of cosmetic surgery, in which instance it would not be until your ugly children were born that you might have an inkling of what she looked like right out of the box, as it were. Of course, you might see some idea of the truth if you get to meet her parents. She will in all likelihood resemble one of them, if not now, someday. The reconfiguration of her anatomy will be far more substantial than your simple pair of sweat sox in your briefs gambit. They who seek equity must do equity, right? Few of us really care to be seen as God created us. The playing field is at least level in the “look how gorgeous I truly am” games.
Should anything substantive evolve from the first encounter, developing over time into everlasting love – the delusion that one woman is different from the rest – that can be cured by the simple act of getting married. Everything sorts out in the end.
Sunday brunch is the opposite reflection of the social opportunity we’ve just been discussing – the mirror image as it were. Single women do do Sunday brunch, and Sunday brunch occurs at some really delightfully fashionable places. And, to relieve the need for ultimate combat theatre, bikers, thugs and any other guys who might beat the shit out of you never go to Sunday brunch. Dim sum aint their milieu either. So you can relax. You actually clean up before going to Sunday brunch. Just as men, no matter the setting, are always looking at women, women at Sunday brunch survey men just as women in bars do. But what they look for is somewhat different. At Sunday brunch they are looking for someone who has left the office behind and is simply there to enjoy the occasion. He should, of course, be understated, quietly cultured and at least suggest the possibility of refinement. If there will be a short wait for a table, it works well to bring a book – not to read – a stage prop. But the book has to be about something in which you are competently conversant. Someone may ask you a question about what the book’s subject stimulates in you. DUH!! You will be given a chance to rhapsodize. If you can’t rhapsodize, you are fucked and will be laughed out of the place, as you will richly deserve. If you really do have cultural interests and there is an event at some gallery or museum in town that interests you, the event catalogue raisonne or some treatise on a relevant subject would be your perfect prop. Even a scratch sheet for a horse race will do if you know how to tout a horse and want to go to the race. Inviting them to go to the race with you is a magnificent gambit.
You can also invite the ladies to sit with you at brunch if you have had a few moments to get acquainted while waiting for a table. But you want to make those minutes while you wait at the bar for a table a veritable swine sift. Swine sift is a reference to the preliminaries at any cattle and hog show. The swine you see at the rodeo are just the finalists, those who made it through the preliminaries, the sifting of swine to find the top twenty to be shown at the big live stock show where prizes are awarded. Milling about in a restaurant waiting for a Sunday brunch seating is much like that.
But you must be ready to be the host at the gathering. The only way to work a room is to act like you are the host, the person they all came to see, the guy in charge. Dutch treat is a relationship killer. If they accept, this will be your opportunity to demonstrate that you are a gracious and generous host. Never drink the “champagne” that comes with brunch! You never want to be seen willing to consume anything just because it is compris, and compris wine is always in short supply – you are always looking for a waiter to bring round some more – bad form that. Ask for a wine list and ask the ladies for their preferences. Order bottles of wine for you table and enjoy it luxuriantly. Nothing else you can do or say speaks better of you than a sense of good wine and a willingness to share it. The guy who drinks the compris wine will always be jerking off alone at the end of the event.
If you are really knowledgeable about wine, that is a perfect topic for Sunday brunch conversation. Most folks don’t know Jack Shit about wine. They drink red wine or they drink white wine. When you make a wine selection, explain what it is about the wine you selected that caused you to choose it for this particular occasion. Tell your guest(s) about the first time you had a drink of this wine. Let her see that you are a romantic by the way you speak about the wine. She will posit that you rhapsodize about every really pleasant experience you have, and that you will feel that way about having been with her and speak about her as you would a very special vintage. Magic starts to happen in her psyche. The woman becomes the wine and the wine becomes the woman. She hears spherical music, becomes wistful, enchanted. Move on to geography. Speak of visits to mountains and hills. The geographic references suggest the architecture of her physical self, and she moves to sentiments erotic. One does not drive a person to eros. One leads her there by indirect suggestive imagery.
You will be damn lucky if you can get back to the hotel before she rips your clothes off and hurls herself onto you seeking impalement. So much for the races and the art galleries on a Sunday afternoon.
I have this vision of some small minded ponce commenting at this juncture that I previously maintained that no one of any judgment at all would be intimate with a chance acquaintance, and am now describing a spontaneous orgy with a total stranger. Such people should only read corporate annual reports. This is a story, not a history. It is a tutorial for the adventurous spirit, not a Sunday school text or sermon. There is something for the risk averse and something for the careless amongst us. If you are a small minded person, stop reading this story and go back to your plastic inflatable fuck pig love doll for whom you need never spring for a bottle of wine.
You may, if you are a real biker – long distance rider – 3,000 miles doesn’t faze you at all – encounter all sorts of serendipity that brings unbelievable wonderful encounters. I would frequently ride my bike a few thousand miles to various lawyer gatherings, partly for the fun of it and partly for the social promotion aspects of having done that. After all, my job in the firm was to get out there and publicize and get new business, as well as to try all the major cases, no matter where. I did one hell of a lot of bike travel – sending nice clothes and case files and an associate on ahead by plane to be all set up and ready to go when I got there. And I threw many really fantastic blow out hell raising pub crawls and parties. A $ 15,000 bar tab in one evening was not unusual at a franchise lawyers convention, especially if I was one of the principal speakers. You would be amazed at how much alcohol a bunch of cheap bastard lawyers will consume at an “open” bar. Jerry Jeff Walker had a great song about that – “When The Man In The Big Hat Is Buying, Drink Up While The Drinking Is Free”. In the good old days when you made good client contacts at cocktail parties, I always came home with enough business to make the bar tab a very sound investment. It was said that folks came to those meetings just for my pub crawls, and many a marriage was ruined because of them. I doubt that any marriage was ruined because of sex at or after one of my pub crawls, as I am dead certain that no man attending could ever have gotten it up after the party.
But I did meet a lot of women who had never been on a motorcycle before, who had always lead circumspect lives of moderation, but who discovered on the back of my motorcycle a wild side to their personae that they never knew was there. One occasion in particular comes to mind. A woman lawyer took a ride with me down the Florida Keys road, and we stopped for a cold drink on one of the keys at some road side beer joint. As we stood on the dock behind the place overlooking the waterway, a dozen or so Harley Riders in full regalia – not the faux Harley riders, but the real Harley riders – rode in and dismounted. The guys went over to the stream bank and relaxed while their women went to fetch beers at the bar and bring them cold beer and pay all sorts of other kinds of attention to them as they reclined on the grass. My “date” had never encountered people like that, and the whole scene somewhat frightened and amazed her – especially when one Harley Babe handed her man a beer and unzipped his fly and gave him a blow job right then and there out in the open. I kinda think she knew that my “date” was watching and had decided to shock her out of her mind. She succeeded magnificently. My “date”, despite her upbringing, couldn’t take her eyes off the scene, and the Harley Babe positioned herself to give my “date” the best possible view, getting off on the total impact she was having.
The rest of the day went rather normally. After lunch at a waterside seafood restaurant, we returned to the hotel, went to her room and everything that might ever have been pent up inside her, known and unknown, was given full expression. An unforgettable afternoon and evening.
You just never know when something may simply overtake you, and you are swept away by a tsunami of passion emanating from someone you thought to be reserved and shy, very professional and concerned about proprieties. We are all onion like, layered so deeply that even we may not be aware of what lies buried deep within. Sometimes just accepting who you are will consume your entire store of energy for the day.
On the other hand, there are those moments when you really want someone and simply can’t find the right notes for the needed music. No matter what, forgetaboutit! You have to accept those moments too, and they are far more frequent than the pleasant surprises. We never tell about them because there just isn’t anything to tell. “Hey, guys. I spent the entire evening last night and nothing happened”, just aint news. Usually nothing happens. That’s why you can get $ 10,000,000 in liability insurance for just a few thousand dollars. Any covered event will cost far more than the premium, but the covered events rarely occur.
When you recognize a shut out evening, that’s the time to find something on the menu that you really love to devour, and then sublimate. For me it’s cold boiled shrimp with cocktail sauce and dry martinis – YUM!!!
By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
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