Wednesday night I went on what was the best date of my life. Great food, great conversation, great scenery, great music, great chemistry. And it ended the way most of my dates do: Street nudity followed by a near-fatal multi-car accident. As we walked out of a lower Queen Anne cantina, I opened my date's door, shut it gentlemanly as she comfied herself on the leather buckets, and walked driver's-side to roll home-ward. As I did, I noticed the rather loud music coming from the SUV in front of me, the driver's side door open. I knew it was going to be a fun story because I was hearing Sitars and a little deep raga wafting over the noise of cab-bound drunken secretaries and a drifter, mid street-crap. Every bloggable story starts with sitar music.
By that SUV's open door stood a man, naked from the waist down. I, too, have been this moved by a Shakti rock-block. I hop in my ride and ask my date if she'd like to see a naked man. Her laughter turned to guffaws as she honked the horn to the man ahead of us, now quickly tossing on his boxers, which were, from the best I could tell in the varied lighting, "car porking orange." Old Navy carries 'em, check 'em out. I did not physilogically see the man's penis, but he WAS in a major metropolitan area driving a large SUV with 22-inch rims and loud stereo. So yeah, I guess I did see his penis.
The bobbing shadow in the SUV's cab showed me that he wasn't the only one re-dressing their personage. For a second I thought he was just a dude getting off his shift at a local restaurant or water show, changing for a night on the town. The shadow killed the dream that this was an everynight occurence, but hey, Sitars and moon-lit cocks, here comes a STORY! I wasn't sure the shadow was cast by a woman, but I assumed so, since I highly doubt a gay man would have sex with somebody standing outside an SUV wearing khakis and a denim shirt. I almost asked him when the movies had to be back. Instead, I gave the man a thumbs up. Way to go, bro.
As we pull up to the next stop light, his car sidles along mine, and he's giving me lady and I the "roll down the window" sign, or the "my finger smells funny" sign. He says to us "It's a new thing called Tahoe Aerobics, I highly recommend it." (The 2005 Chevy Tahoe: With 900 foot-pounds of torque and plenty of room to wheelbarrow your honey, it's the SUV chosen number 1 buy "Adultery Monthly.") The expression of his passenger was a metaphorical "thumbs down" to the recent event, or perhaps a "thumbs up" in that "please, I can't be in this car any longer!" way. Or maybe it was a look that reminded all of us to get paid for services up front. Light goes green, I'm trying to figure out why he's confirming what we'd already assumed. We get it, your cheating on your girlfriend with your wife, whatever. Judging from this guy's neck-whipping acceleration off the line, he was either a thrill seeker or in the company of a close-to-curfew babysitter.
We all got on the I-5 North on-ramp off of Mercer, and he's ahead of me. Ahead of him is another SUV, white in color, offsetting his blood-red ride. For some reason, Backseat Neil tries to get to the left of the white SUV, which had room to move right, but refused to, out of a much larger want to f*ck his paintjob than yield to a short guy with a penchant for public pumpin'. Whitey yields, Streetmeat Red roars on into the night. For the second time within 30 minutes, he f*cked a total stranger!
All I could figure after witnessing his methods of aggro merge & swerve was that f*cking in a car in front of Peso's ain't quite the relaxing vacation it's HY HY HYPED up to be. If you can drive that fast and reckless after sex, it probably didn't count.
My date ended the way they usually do. I get the stitches out next Tuesday. How many kidneys do you need to live anyway?
Arriba and Bonus Nachos.
p.s./f.c.r. If you haven't clued in yet, yes, my date and I remained chaste throughout the evening. I want to try and do the right things with this woman. I figured I'd save the roofies for Role Playing night. When I black out, I'll know the time is right.
=====================================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
No comments:
Post a Comment