The chance - however slim - of finding a new bar chock full of sex-starved MILFs keeps me trying new drinking holes. Mr Nights and I adjourned from the business of the day a little early yesterday to try just such a place. Granted, it was early, and, ditto, it was Monday, but hot ready-to-roll chicks take no notice of those boring pedestrian details.
Hope springs eternal in the mind of the single drinking man, with the unfortunate side-effect that hope displaces logic. Optimism is valuable when dating, but ridiculously inflated imagination is quite another thing. In my head, the bar will be decorated with interesting women. Singles sit at the bar nursing martinis, couples and groups laugh gayly at tables. Some are dressed in silk, others in jeans. Primarily they're all in good spirits, relaxed and open to proposal.
>>>> suitably dreamy interlude music <<<<
This is one reason men get up in the morning. Our out-of-this-universe optimism about meeting sexually available and friendly women begins when the sperm penetrates the egg, and dies only when we're fossilized. Apart from keeping liquor and bar industries profitable, this is useful otherwise only to keep the numbers of horny men up to the women interested in them. In the long run it's about keeping the species viable, but I prefer to think of it as the beautiful meshing of booty and booze.
The new bar was a bust, and I'm not just referring to the delightful Lindsey, our barkeep's breasts. Full of daytime drinkers, she was a contrasting vision in black cat-suit. Not only did she sport a Brooklyn Bridge-quality cleavage, she supplied us with cheese and apple and pretzel snacks.
No MILFs, no silk cocktail dresses, in fact apart from Lindsay, no women of any kind. Still, it's not all bad. There's always this other place I've heard about.
Bottoms Up, Cat-Suiters!
Sunday, August 29, 2010 6:22 AM
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