Agrapart_r.h.Coutier_Cubby

I met so many women last night I felt like Goldie Locks during her foodie period.  The first one shouldn’t have been first, because she was better than all the rest, but I didn’t know what was to come, so I had to assume I could do better.  Patricia was dressed for Halloween, which I could hardly hold against her even though it was six days before the real deal.  Some people will seize any chance to embrace their inner demons as long as they don’t have to do it in therapy.  She was tall for a ghoul, but it worked for her.  She spoke with an accent that wasn’t applied with her face make-up.  I made a point of not asking her where she was from.  I have to assume, to a foreigner, this question never feels fresh.  The accent sounded Swiss with a hint of sexy bed linen and privilege.  We met in line for drinks at the Abbey.

“What are you drinking?”  She asked me in her commit-suicide-for-me accent, and I almost did.

“It’s a screwdriver, but don’t let the name fool you.”  I responded, assuming we both knew I liked the name more than the drink.   She smiled widely which looked incongruent with her dark costume and outfit.  I could tell she was hot and probably ecstatic about getting a night off from all the usual bloodhounds sniffing at her heals.  She asked to try my drink before deciding to order one herself and never removed her eyes from mine as she tasted it.  Her technique energetically lured me closer for a kiss, but the black lipstick halted the fantasy.  The whole face paint experience seemed like a greasy business.  We exchanged numbers and I moved on hoping when next we met there would be nothing and everything between us.

The next girl I encountered was so completely guarded she could have used a costume.  I got her immediately.  We’ve all been wounded, even if it was just, having to buy her own Mercedes when the trust fund matured.  She was waiting for friends at the Normandie Room, which is awkward enough even when you have friends.  She was cute in that “I hate you” sort of way.  She would interpret you falling in love with her as just another way to piss her off.  I don’t want to imply she was angry.  She was just aggressively unhappy.  Once the conversation veered into politics, I knew we would never have that break-up sex that seemed the only kind she would be capable of.  I moved on.

I was excited to bounce to the Palms for an event night.  Event nights always hold the promise of something magical even when they end up delivering the ordinary.  Shelia was not ordinary, but I couldn’t help being reminded of how my friend Liza made me howl when she asked hypothetically, “What mother holds a beautiful baby in her arms and say’s, ‘I will name you Shelia.’  Who would do that to a child?”  Well this chick made the name Shelia sound like Svetlana.  She was wearing angel attire and kept smacking me with her wings by accident.  She apologized though I suspected she liked this aspect of her costume.  Sheila was bright and funny and getting a degree in something artsy.  We decided to dance which I’m fairly certain angels aren’t supposed to do, especially in front of a fan.  While dancing, I noticed she liked to grind me from behind a lot and I had to ask myself if I would commit to having sex with her that way all the time.  I left the angel to ascend on her own.

I met Giselle on the street in front of the Abbey just before closing.  She said I looked familiar.  I get that a lot, but was intrigued, mostly by the fact that she was totally gorgeous in a completely masculine way.  I’ve never gone for “butch,” but this chick had such a great chiseled look that I couldn’t stop myself from practically pirouetting like a girl in front of her.  She invited my friend and I back to her hotel room for an after party.  The Standard has such well-appointed rooms.  After Giselle, the boy-girl with the most feminine name in the world, I finally understood the whole ‘androgyny’ mystic.  Now that Goldie Locks has tried all the porridge, I arrived at the conclusion, all girls are good.