Nothing sets up a school night of charades and debauchery like a perfectly cooked Tenderloin and a few bottles of wine with seven of your highest paid (male) sales reps from La République de la United States. Enough about food. Let us get to the real meat of this event.
After blowing a modest amount of my monthly salary on Blackjack and almost having all 8 of us removed from the Casino (times 3), we picked up our drunkest member who, incidentally, won more than the rest of us lost combined, and proceeded down the Promenade to the only club I knew of. Greeted with a mob of people down the block and around the corner, we did what any group with 8 Corporate American Express cards would do: walk to the front and ask for VIP bottle service the rest of the night.
Settled into the lounge two steps up from the dance floor and accompanying pole, whatever THAT was for, I B-line it to powder my nose. Upon my return, Portland notifies me that the tall blonde on the dance floor was throwing her eyes ALL OVER my cleavage. Before I finish pouring myself another glass of Grey Goose-tasting tastiness, Portland returns and says this:
“Dude. It’s all set. All you need to do is go talk to her.”
I didn't even have to ask what was going on. Before he could finish giving me the ‘Go Get ‘Em’ man-slap on the ass, I was down the stairs, hand on her waist, whispering some things I can’t remember in her ear, hand in hand, escorting her and her friend back up to where the booze was ‘cause I mean c’mon, like I’m gonna leave a free bottles of vodka.
She’s tall, ya’ll. Like me. And other stuff too, I think. But I know this for sure. It was love at first sight. Then she started speaking this Godly-like French accent in my ear. Ah man. Believe me when I tell you, her English is horrible. But the expression on her face when I answered her question of having never been married said, “Not much longer.” No doubt.
So on it went. Sparks flew brighter and further than when I plugged my 110 V stereo receiver into a 220 V outlet the other week. It was like watching a star being born. Before we knew it, 04:30 rolled in and this old man just couldn’t hang any longer. I had to split out this club, kids.
But she danced on.
Which is OK.
As luck would have it, Jesus hates me. ‘Cause apparently in France, when you’re 18, you can do whatever the hell you want.
18. I. . .I uh. . .(sigh) damn.
After blowing a modest amount of my monthly salary on Blackjack and almost having all 8 of us removed from the Casino (times 3), we picked up our drunkest member who, incidentally, won more than the rest of us lost combined, and proceeded down the Promenade to the only club I knew of. Greeted with a mob of people down the block and around the corner, we did what any group with 8 Corporate American Express cards would do: walk to the front and ask for VIP bottle service the rest of the night.
Settled into the lounge two steps up from the dance floor and accompanying pole, whatever THAT was for, I B-line it to powder my nose. Upon my return, Portland notifies me that the tall blonde on the dance floor was throwing her eyes ALL OVER my cleavage. Before I finish pouring myself another glass of Grey Goose-tasting tastiness, Portland returns and says this:
“Dude. It’s all set. All you need to do is go talk to her.”
I didn't even have to ask what was going on. Before he could finish giving me the ‘Go Get ‘Em’ man-slap on the ass, I was down the stairs, hand on her waist, whispering some things I can’t remember in her ear, hand in hand, escorting her and her friend back up to where the booze was ‘cause I mean c’mon, like I’m gonna leave a free bottles of vodka.
She’s tall, ya’ll. Like me. And other stuff too, I think. But I know this for sure. It was love at first sight. Then she started speaking this Godly-like French accent in my ear. Ah man. Believe me when I tell you, her English is horrible. But the expression on her face when I answered her question of having never been married said, “Not much longer.” No doubt.
So on it went. Sparks flew brighter and further than when I plugged my 110 V stereo receiver into a 220 V outlet the other week. It was like watching a star being born. Before we knew it, 04:30 rolled in and this old man just couldn’t hang any longer. I had to split out this club, kids.
But she danced on.
Which is OK.
As luck would have it, Jesus hates me. ‘Cause apparently in France, when you’re 18, you can do whatever the hell you want.
18. I. . .I uh. . .(sigh) damn.
