Sunday, September 18, 2005

Shake It Like a Salt Shaker.

The setting was Margarita's, an indoor/outdoor establishment on a lonely road in Hedgesville, W.Va. The mode of arrival was a black limousine, outfitted with blue neon accents along the sides and a forbearing young driver with spiky hair. The contents of the limo were thirtysomething and amused with themselves: one bride-to-be wearing a tiara with attached veil and an airbrushed T-shirt that read "Brian and Mandi 4ever," five married and newly minted mothers, one married woman (not yet a mom) and one single woman.

Leaving empty bottles of Michelob Light and a half-eaten box of Penis Gummies in their wake, they streamed toward the outdoor bar, which featured churning frozen drinks, two deep-fryers, an Avril-friendly soundtrack, a roaming cat and gravelly stations for games of horseshoes. The female patrons: mostly plump and bottle-blond. The male patrons: mostly tattooed and not fond of razors. The limo party ordered their drinks: more Mich-Lights, a strawberry-banana daiquiri for the guest of honor, and a margarita for the single girl, who generally forgoes beer and felt very heartened by the sight of hard liquor by this point.

The limo party was almost immediately told that their first round was being paid for by a man named Hercules, who was quiet and mustachioed and older and amused. The party was then left to their discussions, which primarily involved workouts and in-laws.

Meanwhile, the bride-to-be had been so focused on her aversion to being "one of those girls" with the tiara and veil that she forgot to be concerned that someone might order her a "blow job," until someone did. This meant the b-t-b was forced to bend over the bar and attempt to dump something into her mouth without hands. Though the whipped-cream-topped shot came a bit on her airbrushed T-shirt, everyone was highly entertained by her performance. It was decided that the party should move inside at that point, because inside there was a dance floor, and because in America we are aggressive in seeking humiliations for a person who is about to be married, especially if we are female.

The indoor scene at Margarita's was considerably grimmer. The air was smoky, the floor was carpeted and country music blared across an empty dance floor. The limo party, however, was lubricated, and ready to initiate change. A conversation was held with the DJ. The music became more dance-friendly ("Joy and Pain" etc.). Hercules silently bought another round. The single girl thought of unhappy frat parties as a freshman at Wash. U., her partying senior-year housemates at Penn, with whom she never identified, and sorority rush. Then everyone, grateful for a chance to ditch their troubles, joyfully made asses of themselves on the dance floor.

For much of the dance portion of the evening they were accompanied by a sole stranger. The stranger was, like the other male patrons, tattooed and had facial hair. But he was smaller, and wirier, and he had a wife-beater on and relished dancing to hip-hop. His gyrations were targeted toward a certain ladyfriend who sat front-and-center at the dance floor, captivated. She outstripped him in weight and height by about 40 pounds and four inches.

Then two things happened that scandalized the limo party, who were by this point a little overstimulated and were gathered around a table of half-empty drinks and a ravaged basket of chicken tenders and fries from the outdoor bar fryer. The first thing that happened was that a birthday was announced, and another blow job was ordered. However, in this case the blow job was placed on the center of the dance floor and the "fellator" was a heavy, older woman with bleach-weary hair and a too-tight skirt that revealed her underwear when she bent over. She made quick, dirty, expert work of the blowjob and accepted her kudos from the crowd and the DJ ("Wow, baby, what's your name, you have to come over to my place some time!"). Then the Chippendales couple resumed their routine, even more fiercely than before. The ladyfriend was wearing a big white T-shirt, khaki pants, sneakers, and a bitten lip. It was possible to imagine that she and her private dancer had rolled out of bed at 5 p.m. and come straight to Margarita's as both afterplay and foreplay. When the ladyfriend wasn't cheering on her lover's dance moves, she was up on the floor kissing him or grinding with him. These unexpected displays of sexuality, along with a surfeit of songs featuring Lil' Jon, did most of the limo party in. They straggled toward the door, chanting Hercules' name with forced spirit.

In the car on the way back, the party finished off the Penis Gummies and deconstructed the evening. Much was made of the dance-floor couple and how they "ruined" the atmosphere with their exhibitionism. The single girl defended them as carelessly as she opened a leftover bottle of Mike's Limeade. All she had seen was a couple in love who didn't give a fuck, and she drank to that.


  1. Anonymous5:27 PM

    are you sure you weren't in Lynchburg?

  2. Anonymous7:48 PM

    hella good post

    pb (dot c)

  3. Anonymous2:13 AM

    Great post; observant, thoughtful, amusing.


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