Lookbook is to blame. The Minneapolis electronica duo broke up (professionally and personally, from what I’ve gleaned) just before their show at Cause, which I’d planned to attend tonight. Hmph. What’s a single girl with cabin fever supposed to do?
I'm not psyched about the show. Having listened to Messersmith’s music so many times I have the CDs memorized, it’s not exactly new stimulation. It's also an early show, which means there are a lot of parents here…and not of the MILF variety. Talk about a buzz kill.
My ex-turned-BFF arrives and we shoot the shit before Messersmith takes the stage. Shortly after the crooner, and his cronnies, all decked out in white ("Didn't you get the memo? I'm starting a cult."), take the stage, my BFF takes off. (Later I’ll find out that he was equally disenchanted and chose to get drunk in a dive bar while another man tried to buy his way into his pants. True story.)
As the show comes to a close, I wonder how it is that I haven’t gotten hit on. Quite frankly, I look hot. Somehow I've squeezed into a skin-tight pair of jeans and it’s warm enough in the club that I’ve shed my sweater. All my curves are on display, I’m having a kick-ass hair day, and damn, if it were anatomically possible, I’d totally jump my own bones right here, right now.
Alas…be careful what you wish for. The much anticipated come-on occurs during the very last encore song, when a dude who looks totally out of place (don’t you belong at a Limp Bizkit concert somewhere?) bops over to me (yes, bops), takes a slurp of something red from a plastic cup (oh-so-classy) and that’s when I know it’s just a matter of time until…
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks, sliding his hand across the small of my back. There’s only a thin layer of cotton separating his skin from mine. I must admit, it sends a little shock of arousal up my spine. I adore ballsy moves, but why is it always the a-holes that use ‘em?
I look at Limp Bizkit with a “You’ve got to be kidding me” expression and shake my head. I have a biting retort or two on the tip of my tongue (“On his way over to kick your ass” comes to mind), but there are no satisfactory answers to this question. So I stay silent.
(For future reference, fellas, put “Where’s your boyfriend?” on the Top-10-Shittiest-Pick-Up-Lines list.)
I leave before the music stops, lest Limp Bizkit thinks it’s cute to escort me to my car. I’m home by 10:30 PM. This Saturday night sucks ass.
Flash back a few weeks prior to another Saturday night, this time at Cause (a.k.a. the best bet for last-minute live music in the Twin Cities). I’ve come to ogle Speed’s The Name frontman Ryan McNally, but between sets, I spy Cody Broccoli (a.k.a. manager of The Goondas) at the bar.
I head over to say hello.
“Damn!” he says as soon as I slam into him for a hug. “You hurt me! Do you have a nipple piercing or something?”
No… (but I have been with a woman who had ‘em…)
During the next set, while I’m flirting with a fb friend on my phone, Cody creeps up behind me and covers the screen with his hand.
“Which one do you like?” he asks, lifting his chin to indicate the rockers onstage. There are five young studs to choose from. None of them my type. They look, well, dirty. As in: desperate for a date with bar of soap and a hairbrush.
“They’re all performers,” Cody says like a proud pimp. “I know for a fact. Which one do you want?”
“Whichever one takes off his shirt first,” I say, a wink-wink nudge-nudge at one of Cody’s other boys (a.k.a. yummy drummer Josh Miller) whom I’ve yet to fuck.
Once the dirty dudes are done, I say my goodbyes.
“You’re not staying?” Cody gapes. “Did you get a booty call?”
“Ha! I wish.”
“I’m taken,” Cody says. “But I’ll give you a hug if you want. I know you like those tight squeezes.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“I read your posts,” he says.
“Oh, no!” I moan, though I don’t mean it, at least, not in this case. I figure if anyone can find me a decent rock star to rock my world, it’s Cody. All the better if he knows what I do and don't like between the sheets.
“Yup. I’ve been reading,” he muses. “And you’ve been around…”
“Uh…gee, thanks.”
“I don’t mean you’re a whore. I just mean that you referenced like four other dudes in one post.”
“Hmm…”
“Besides, you have kids, right?”
“Yup. Two of them.”
“Boys or girls?”
“Both girls.”
“Uh-oh. You must be a bad influence on them.”
“I’m not around enough to be a bad influence!”
“Same dad?”
“Yeah…”
“Divorce?”
“Yes…”
“I don’t mean to invade your privacy or anything.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s much privacy left if you’ve read the blog.”
“Hey,” Cody says. “Don’t feel bad. About Josh, I mean. He turned you and another chick down recently. I asked him what the deal was and he said he was ‘working stuff out over his ex’.”
Now that is bullshit. I don’t think Josh has evolved past penis think. He's still at the young, dumb, and full of cum stage of development. Hence, my intense desire for a one-night-stand with him.
In the interest of self-disclosure, the man front has been quieter than usual lately. Or rather, it’s cyclical. And I’m closer to the celibate side at the moment. Not that there aren’t men on my radar; there most definitely are.
The other night I sexted with Slump Buster while I skinny dipped in my hot-tub…and made very good use of the strategically placed jets whilst imagining his hand smacking my ass. That was fun. Not as fun as fucking, but, you know.
Then there’s the mysterious “Run Doc” who friended me on Facebook and refused to reveal his identity because he’s “shy”. (To which I responded, “I don’t do shy dudes. Identify yourself or I’m filing you in the ‘stalker’ section.”)
Then there’s the fan who’s offered to chauffer me to Trampled by Turtles concert in Rochester next month. As if I needed bribing, he has also offered to throw in a bag of Halloween Oreos. My favorite. Nom nom.
And, for better or worse, the exes continue to hover. New Dude recently subscribed to my YouTube channel under an unfamiliar screen name, knowing that eventually I’d get curious enough to check out his playlists. Um, yeah, posting songs like Violent Femmes “Day After Day” and Lady GaGa’s “Bad Romance” takes passive-aggressiveness to a whole new level. Ugh.
In sum, there’s activity. Just not wild, sweaty, throw-down action. I could use some of that. Sigh.
So I keep going to Cause. And once in a while, it pays off. Like last Hump Day. It was pretty fucking fabulous. With five minutes of my arrival, I’d been kissed by Playboy and told I looked “as cute as ever”, gotten a few friendly words from She (of the infamous threesome), been hugged and told “you look happy” by Carnage (not a pseudonym, BTW, but a hip-hop alter ego), bumped into Chris Koza for the ump-teenth time (and gasped “Are you stalking me?!”), chatted with rock photographer Erik Hess about the hottest shows around town, and given another former blog subject the cold shoulder.
(Recounting the evening later to my lil’ bro, I tell him that all my favorite characters were in one room and/or on my phone. “It was like Man Eater, the musical!”)
Then a guy devouring some succulently scented appetizer next to me turned and introduced himself.
“You look so chill,” he marveled. “I just had to say hello.”
Yup, Man Eater has the confident single lady act down pat. Now if only someone would pat me down…and eat me out…
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…………………………
***
What’s that you say? A recipe? Fuck that. Man Eater needs to squeeze into her skinny jeans by this Friday, when I’ll be reading at the Bryant Lake Bowl in Minneapolis at 10 PM. My topic? Irish appetites. Hmm…plenty of material to choose to from…
So come on down, Twin Citians (stalkers excluded)! Those who do *might* get lucky…
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