15
Aug
08

Annual looming-birthday freakout

Boy, nothing takes it out of a guy more than being at the city’s #1 singles spot and having a girl tell you, “If you haven’t had one by now, you’re probably not going to have one.”

The “one” in question is, of course, a threesome. No, I’m sorry, it’s actually a child. I don’t quite recall how the subject came up, but it was during a conversation at the 20th anniversary of a Vancouver institution called the Roxy. Now, this is quite a famous place in these parts, and if the phrase “Girls Gone Wild” hadn’t already been trademarked by some dude in California, it could just as easily belong to the Roxy. Some of the stories I’ve heard include the time a friend was sitting around with the staff one night after closing and suddenly the door to the women’s bathroom opens and there’s this stark-naked woman standing there. “Jed”—or whatever the bouncer’s name was whose services she was waiting for—”Jed, when are we going to fuck?”

Then there was the time one of the staff was doing a girl from behind in the liquor storeroom, or someplace similar. It was cash-out time, and the manager found him and simply started laying out his tip money in five dollar bills on the back of the girl.

And I’ll probably never erase the memory of witnessing what I’ve since learned is called an “upside-down cumshot.” This is where a bartender pours booze from the bottle into the throats of girls as they lean their heads back over the bar. This was a few years ago, when a second- or third-cousin was visiting, and she and her friend wanted to go to the Roxy, which they’d heard so much about.

Now, the Roxy has never been my type of place to hang out, even with the above reasons to become a regular. The cover bands are kind of cheesy, the lineups long, and the people hockey fans. But I have to admit I was having a great time last night at the (open bar) 20th anniversary. Former wingman the Big D had come out, and proclaimed, “I’m the best wingman there is. Where’s Wingy?” We were hanging out with a publicist and her friends, and the publicist was getting quite tanked and talking about coming home with no underwear and gangbangs at the Hells Angels clubhouse (not that she was involved). One of her friends was the girl I’d had an unsuccessful date with around Christmastime—if by “unsuccessful” I mean, I thought it was a date until I heard, secondhand and while the “date” was still in progress, that she didn’t think it was a date. It’s always fun running into someone like that, someone with whom you shared an uncomfortable two hours, and knowing you are going to go back to someone wonderful later that night (as I did).

So, as I was saying, all in all it was a good night, at least until Liz dropped this bombshell. I mean, I’m not even sure I want kids, but I want to at least think they’re still a possibility (however remote). And who is she to say that? What makes her the expert? But then I realized, I’m just a little over-sensitive these days, what with a birthday coming up in less than a month. Anyway, I think I got the better of the conversation, in the end:

“Why?” I responded. “How old do you think I am?” I’d already guessed her age at 25 or 26, and she hadn’t corrected me—though, as is my custom, I’d subtracted a few years from what I really thought.

“Oh no, I’m not getting into that trap,” she replied.

“You can still save yourself—just guess my age, shave five years off, and say that. That’s what I always do.” I paused. “Though of course, I didn’t do that in YOUR case.”

There is one thing I am too old for, however—and that’s staying at the Roxy just to see some more upside-down cumshots or girls flashing their boobs onstage while the house band plays “Sweet Home Alabama.” Some high-end, over-priced food was calling my name, and so the Big D and I headed out while the party was still in full swing, feeling a little older, a little wiser, and a lot more drunk.


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