Last Night ( & written while drunk)
Apr. 7th, 2013 03:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonFile it:
Stir crazy alone and unwilling to go 96 hours without word one from another soul. Bored, lonely, restless. Voyage solo to L5P on boot. Leather jacket and Murakami tucked in the back of the jeans. Yacht club. Luck of the draw, run into Gal Friday and her friend. They allow me to sit adjacent. We get to talking and her friend talks superb. Her friend strikes the senses unique. Luminescent of wit, electric of charm, thin, ginger and wow. She quotes House of Leaves, Candide and vintage Star Wars. Her friend hustles tables at Manny's tavern, with three degrees under her belt and a penchant for Eastern Philosophy. She talks jazz from Miles Davis to John Zorn. She talks space ships from Millennium Falcon to Serenity. In turn I talk smooth and she's got me pegged for clever but registers unimpressed nevertheless. I up my game and slip entranced. Said friend, on her 2nd fireball, hikes up her dress and shows me her Boba Fett tattoo stitched above the waist line of rainbow colored panties.
Register me smitten, impressed and enchanted. Register me hers by drink number 3.
And she knows it. But she knows I'm not looking to fuck or looking for love but still looking at her as if she's the only person in the room. Then what am I looking for?, she asks with eyes instead of words.
I answer silently with a smile lacking in play but with total sincerity: I'm looking for back-up, I'm looking for a blaster to back my play, I'm looking for a get away driver, I'm looking for a rogue, a scoundrel and a woman no stranger to smuggling much less cuddling. I'm looking for air-pirate queens and rebel princesses. And ma'am, I'm looking at you because you fit the bill I'm ready to pick up.
She was amazing. She also has just arrived fresh from a messy break-up and probably in no mood to be objectified by the advances of amorous poets who still live with their mothers. I temper my drive and found myself drawn more towards her for it.
Sadly though Gal Friday and her friend leave. I pick up the bill ( "...be Italian, pay for every drink" sings in my head while I curse myself for an earnest interest that forgot to ask for a number). Left alone at the Yacht and I down a chapter of Murakami along with the last of my Jack. Then a surprise text from the Contact arrives. The contact is at a bar on Edgewood. Hailing frequencies open I respond positive and hail a cab. Arrive on the scene and the Contact is roaring to go. We hit a subterranean bar nearby. DJ dropping hip hop to brit pop. Young men and young women grind on the floor and the dance they evoke betwixt themselves displays thin hopes of securing a more private, if not harmonious, melody. Lovers kiss around us as we talk, as we drink, as we laugh. We hit the Contact's one-hitter liberally as hir significant other tends bar. Who can stop us? Who dares tell us no?
Stoned stupid I tell hir it's been eight days since I last drank. I tell hir about the book. I tell hir about Jax, my brother and my nephews resplendent. But mainly I tell hir about Gal Friday's friend I just met. I tell hir I'm awed, shocked and nervous. I tell hir it's been a long time since I've waxed entranced. The contact laughs a gun fighter's laugh, smooth and laconic. Buck up Cowboy, s/he says, it's neither her first rodeo nor yours. All parties, most likely, flattered for the attention so freely given therefore why worry if you played your cards on your sleeve around her.
The Contact is awesome that way.
Another drink then at the subterranean bar on Edgewood, another bowl and another set of laughs. Last call then s/he drops me off home. Back to just me and this shadow of a story I wear: An ex-asshole trying his best to be a man worthy of the friends he has and the adventures he has survived. A karmic gunfighter and a lover of the long odds. The long shot in the shadows on your side and if not the best chance then at least always your last. I am no more than the promise of a wink against doomsday if you should care to look my way.
So, long story short, existential dread and bad vibes ahead avoided by a chance encounter with two friends and a majestic woman whose cold shrug haunts me still these hours after her passing.
Now? Bed spins, a hang over and a secret dream sequence awaits of back up and get away drivers and quick drawing rebel princesses await.
10-4, over and out.
Stir crazy alone and unwilling to go 96 hours without word one from another soul. Bored, lonely, restless. Voyage solo to L5P on boot. Leather jacket and Murakami tucked in the back of the jeans. Yacht club. Luck of the draw, run into Gal Friday and her friend. They allow me to sit adjacent. We get to talking and her friend talks superb. Her friend strikes the senses unique. Luminescent of wit, electric of charm, thin, ginger and wow. She quotes House of Leaves, Candide and vintage Star Wars. Her friend hustles tables at Manny's tavern, with three degrees under her belt and a penchant for Eastern Philosophy. She talks jazz from Miles Davis to John Zorn. She talks space ships from Millennium Falcon to Serenity. In turn I talk smooth and she's got me pegged for clever but registers unimpressed nevertheless. I up my game and slip entranced. Said friend, on her 2nd fireball, hikes up her dress and shows me her Boba Fett tattoo stitched above the waist line of rainbow colored panties.
Register me smitten, impressed and enchanted. Register me hers by drink number 3.
And she knows it. But she knows I'm not looking to fuck or looking for love but still looking at her as if she's the only person in the room. Then what am I looking for?, she asks with eyes instead of words.
I answer silently with a smile lacking in play but with total sincerity: I'm looking for back-up, I'm looking for a blaster to back my play, I'm looking for a get away driver, I'm looking for a rogue, a scoundrel and a woman no stranger to smuggling much less cuddling. I'm looking for air-pirate queens and rebel princesses. And ma'am, I'm looking at you because you fit the bill I'm ready to pick up.
She was amazing. She also has just arrived fresh from a messy break-up and probably in no mood to be objectified by the advances of amorous poets who still live with their mothers. I temper my drive and found myself drawn more towards her for it.
Sadly though Gal Friday and her friend leave. I pick up the bill ( "...be Italian, pay for every drink" sings in my head while I curse myself for an earnest interest that forgot to ask for a number). Left alone at the Yacht and I down a chapter of Murakami along with the last of my Jack. Then a surprise text from the Contact arrives. The contact is at a bar on Edgewood. Hailing frequencies open I respond positive and hail a cab. Arrive on the scene and the Contact is roaring to go. We hit a subterranean bar nearby. DJ dropping hip hop to brit pop. Young men and young women grind on the floor and the dance they evoke betwixt themselves displays thin hopes of securing a more private, if not harmonious, melody. Lovers kiss around us as we talk, as we drink, as we laugh. We hit the Contact's one-hitter liberally as hir significant other tends bar. Who can stop us? Who dares tell us no?
Stoned stupid I tell hir it's been eight days since I last drank. I tell hir about the book. I tell hir about Jax, my brother and my nephews resplendent. But mainly I tell hir about Gal Friday's friend I just met. I tell hir I'm awed, shocked and nervous. I tell hir it's been a long time since I've waxed entranced. The contact laughs a gun fighter's laugh, smooth and laconic. Buck up Cowboy, s/he says, it's neither her first rodeo nor yours. All parties, most likely, flattered for the attention so freely given therefore why worry if you played your cards on your sleeve around her.
The Contact is awesome that way.
Another drink then at the subterranean bar on Edgewood, another bowl and another set of laughs. Last call then s/he drops me off home. Back to just me and this shadow of a story I wear: An ex-asshole trying his best to be a man worthy of the friends he has and the adventures he has survived. A karmic gunfighter and a lover of the long odds. The long shot in the shadows on your side and if not the best chance then at least always your last. I am no more than the promise of a wink against doomsday if you should care to look my way.
So, long story short, existential dread and bad vibes ahead avoided by a chance encounter with two friends and a majestic woman whose cold shrug haunts me still these hours after her passing.
Now? Bed spins, a hang over and a secret dream sequence awaits of back up and get away drivers and quick drawing rebel princesses await.
10-4, over and out.