The girl with the rabbit tattoo
by Stan Faryna
So where do I start? Of course, I have to tell you about the midget in the top hat and black tuxedo. I knew it was going to be a magical night.
Michael Jackson, Billie Jean
You may want to accuse me of looking too often to the naked, young woman simulating auto-erotic behavior in the giant champagne glass.
She wasn’t really naked. Her nipples were covered with duct tape. But, honestly, I was quite taken by the midget. Honestly!
Meanwhile six other dancers in rhinestone-embellished string bikinis shook, trembled, jiggled, thrusted, and gyrated to the beat – a beat so loud, I would leave the club at dawn with damaged ear drums. 48 hours later, my ears are stilling ringing and the cars on the street below sound like ocean waves rolling up on the sea shore.
A young Patrick Swayze look-a-like thrusted his package with force, precision, and tireless discipline for five hours. Did I mention his chiseled abdomen and pecks? He could also make them tremble for five minutes at a go. When he jumped to the beat, he leapt like a missile and landed like a panther.
This was happening on stage.
On the floor, among the sea of black leather couches, armchairs, and white coffee tables, wild things were going on. In my forward line of sight, there were three parties going on.
One: a 20 something man in baggy jeans falling from his hips and a tee shirt. Perhaps, the son of an oligarch. He came with two prostitutes in form fitting something. His friends dropped by on occasion, but he looked bored out of his mind.
Two: a 50-something midget with two prom queens. The prom dresses were mini skirt length. They gave him lap dances. From the looks of it, he had four orgasms with his pants on. Patrick Swayze cheered them on with slow, steady, deep thrusts.
Three: Three hotties who drank six bottles of vodka and made fun of all the men that dared to make an advance. One bent over and revealed a tattoo of the playboy bunny on her left ass cheek. At least, I think it was the playboy bunny, but I was trying not to notice she wasn’t wearing panties.
These were just three of the hundred or so parties going on.
And then there was our party. It was a birthday party for my GF’s boss. So I had to be there – not that I knew what I had signed up for. In fact, I haven’t been out in the city much. But I was there for my GF – trying to be the trophy American BF that her co-workers expected of me. Of course, I failed miserably.
There was no conversation in the ordinary sense. There was no opportunity to demonstrate wit or intelligence – not that I am gifted like that. But I will try – if given the chance.
There was some texting: I’m drunk! You are funny man. Where’s your drink? Bottom’s up? Get up and dance! You are mad man! You like ass on bitch at next couch?
People typed and showed the text on their phone to you.
I thought to contribute some humor to the text party, so I tapped out my message:
Blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God. Matthew 5:8.
But then I thought better of my parody. I deleted the text. After all, I wasn’t here for my entertainment. I was here for moral support. Moral what?
Did I mention this birthday party was for the CEO of a company with multi-million dollar annual profit?
My GF’s boss out drank me (four bottles to my one bottle), he danced like a tiger for five hours, and he seemed to be saying the same thing to all of the other men (with women) at his party:
That we shouldn’t feel bad that he has his hand in all of our cookie jars. This is life. Get over it. Get drunk. Tonight, he’s paying for our booze.
I could say more but I won’t.
Around 5am, a housey bastardization of Michael Jackson’s song, Billie Jean, came up. I pulled some of Michael’s moves out of a hat and earned a little respect. Thereby, I earned my keep for the night. Almost.
But I have to say that I feel shattered as a man and a human being. The universe is broken. I want to cry. The future is hell and the future is now. What’s worse than that?
I’ll tell you.
It’s when you are obsolete. When you aren’t meaningful to a world like this. When you got nothing that the world wants.
The title is inspired by the title and subject of Bill Dorman’s post, The Girl With The Rabbit Tattoo. Bill Dorman is a friend, fellow blogger, and aspiring novelist. Although I have been reluctant to publish it for a week or more, I found courage today after reading Jack Steiner’s The Naked Truth Never Lies. Jack is also an aspiring novelist. And since we’re on the subject of friends, bloggers, and aspiring authors, I would be remiss not to mention Billy Delaney and John Magnet Bell.
02 April 2012
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