So This is What Happens . . .

We went to one of the many waterfront bars on that side of town last night. I had not been to this particular place but figured it was the same frat boy, wanna be glam, "oh, you know, Kid Rock hangs out there" kind of place.

Instead it was Sugar Daddy divorcee cheese-fest, with expensive tiny drinks and a dance floor. The interior was done in college dorm room with shitty loft decor, which was an odd juxtaposition against the clientele. We knew the D.J. by coincidence, which meant all my requests were played. Very fun how he fit The Smiths into the seventies dance mix.

Desperation was shaking her booty on the dance floor and with a liberal tossing in alcohol it was an engrossing scene. Very much like a car crash or murder scene photos. It got wilder as the night went on . . . forty and fifty year olds who don't have much to lose know how to party.

No, I did not pick anyone up. Nor did anyone really hit on me, though I was oogled on my way to the bathroom several times and some woman was rubbing her butt up against mine but that was just because she wanted the chair and she was so distracted about reeling in this guy that she didn't look to see that I was in the chair.

It seems to be a very regular crowd. The men all knew each other. We were new "meat" so they just sniffed at us, leery. Thank goodness. Because they were creepy.

So last night made me appreciate the matchdotcom thing much more. It works about as well but I don't have to get all smoky, leered at and leaned upon. Watching a whole night of women throwing themselves at anything was a good reality check too. When I get all depressed that things aren't moving, I need to remember that they could move to dancing with a drunk sixty year old guy with an alcohol problem and a bad toupee.