Girl Gone Wild: East Coast pimps

By Loki Ferris

Scene: EST, Seaport Brewing Company. Sometime in the not-too-distant past. Two attractive women sit at the bar. A reggae funk band plays in the adjacent room while a mob of single and not-so-single men circle the women like vultures on fresh roadkill.

There is something so damned funny about the obviousness of it all. To the world, the women simply can be out enjoying themselves without any goal attached to their excursion into the hostile meat market of a small-town bar. They are out "bonding." To the men in the room, they are two unclaimed and unchartered pieces of territory begging to be put on the local map. They look at one another like opponents in a chess match, anticipating each other's move toward checking the queens, and in keeping with the strategy, obliterating the kings. But they are actually pawns, continuously moving forward in hopes of getting kinged.

One of the pawns steps up, doing his best to hide his wedding ring by folding his arms like a schoolkid who's told to keep his hands to himself. I ended up telling him precisely that after I asked him point-blank if he liked being married.

"It's a promise ring." Yadda yadda. Promise what? Promise that you will cheat at the first opportunity given? Why bother making the symbolic gesture in the first place? I told my girlfriend that I felt like kicking his barstool out from under him. I was polite on the outside but seething on the inside. To make matters worse, he makes a sexual innuendo. I bid him goodnight, then I scold Kate for not showing more discretion with her loose eye contact (one of the reasons he came over in the first place).

"Sorry, that one was an accident!"

Hmmm, eye candy coming my way. He opens his mouth and all of a sudden it's Cartman from "South Park." I told him I had a boyfriend.

"That's okay, I have a girlfriend."

Another douchebag, I thought to myself. Boy, these local chicks are certainly lucky. I'd move away, very far away.

"I've never been with a woman like you," Cartman utters.

"That's not changing tonight, duuuude."

I wanted to pull his skullcap over his face and kick him off his barstool, too. Where was this belligerence coming from? I felt like it was my job to call these guys' wives and girlfriends just to rat them out. Looking is one thing, but hitting on is definitely an intent to cheat. I surmised there were slim pickings around these parts, so I tried to shake it off. Right when I thought I was going to have to kick out douchebag #1, the bartender does it for me.

Kate's taking one for the team and getting us free drinks all night. The only cool guys in the whole place seemed to either work there or play in the band. The rest were basically walking, erect penises, which is okay if they are unattached. (insert bad joke here.)

Last call. The quiet guy sitting three stools down finally springs to life, offering to buy me a drink. Like it's going to work. I'm going to get one free drink and all of a sudden I'll be sooooo overwhelmingly horny I'll run home with him. I thought desperation was a made-up town... A Kennedy lookalike waves us over as if we are supposed to jump up and say, "Where we goin', boss?" Kennedy or not, you can't just clap your hands together and expect two chicks to follow you to another party. Kate and I have been hit on enough to hold us over for the rest of the year. (Note to self: Watch eye contact in a room full of horny men, and don't smile as much.)

At last, we pick ourselves up, making haste for the car. All the boys from the bar are literally waiting outside for us, and I didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened. Nick the bouncer watched us get to our car as we politely no-thanks'd everyone. For the first time in a long time, I just wasn't feelin' it. I was just a traveler passing through, enjoying the sights and learning the lingo. Content with all the zany antics of the evening, I returned to my hotel room alone and dreamt about home, as corny as that sounds, because that's where my heart was.

Send your questions and comments to loki@lasvegasmercury.com.