Luck Be a Lady
I drummed my fingers on the table as the chubby girl in front of me droned on about her cats. So far, she was my third bust of the evening: the first, a cougar without a penny to her name, the second, a chick with a furry fetish. Now, here I was pretending to smile as feline-loving fatty showed me pictures of Mrs. Chiao-Po, her siamese cat.
The bell rang, and (thankful) I bowed politely at her and moved on to the next table. Promising so far, brunette in a short yellow dress, tight enough to squeeze her amble bosoms. I shook her hand and sat down, and started a conversation with what could only possibly be described as the dumbest person I have ever met. Most of the time, she loudly wondered why violets are blue, and could not move away from that childish rhyme.
The bell rang, and I didn’t even say goodbye to her as I picked myself up and moved to the blonde at the next table. She was wearing a purple tank top and dark blazer. As I shook her hand, I noticed a slight chip on an upper right tooth. It’s one of those things you don’t really notice, but once you do it’s hard not to not notice it. I have no idea what she said, I just kept staring at her broken tooth, dreading the fact that I might put my tongue into that.
The bell rang, and I moved to the next girl. She had short black hair and the first thing she said as she toyed with her hair was that she was looking for a guy who is into Jesus the way she is. We spent the next five minutes in silence.
The bell rang, and I sat at the next table. Biker chick with a purple mohawk, wearing heavy leather clothes adorned with chains. She asked how much I weigh. I told her ladies don’t ask about weight. She said she ain’t no lady.
The bell rang, and I ran to the next person. Pretty, cute little bobcat hair. She was clever and educated, prim yet sexy. I was about to write my number down when she asked if I had problems with pre-op transexuals.
The bell rang, and I dragged myself to the next one. She had two arms, two legs, a vagina, a functional brain, a face that wasn’t cringe-worthy, and a body that was forgettable after a few more shots of liquor. I told her we could do it in the washroom. She told me to fuck off.
The bell rang, and the next one on the circle, I swear, was 80 years old. At this point, I was ready to do it with anyone, but I was just afraid she’d die in the middle of sex.
The bell rang, and I was face-to-face with this redhead who confided she was a whore looking for true love. I asked her how much her rate was.
The bell rang, and I was staring at air. Everyone else it seems has paired up, I took a look around and only two-armed, two-legged, one-vagina-ed, one-functional-brain, one-non-cringeworthy-face, one-forgettable-body was by herself. She made that same realization when no other guy sat at her table. Looking around, we locked eyes.
This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.