Sunday, January 01, 2006

rivercity blues 2

The Starlight Lounge is also Rivercity’s gay bar. When I walked in there on Saturday night, a tall skinny fellow was taking the cover charge at the door. He was dressed in black jeans and a pair of studded leather suspenders. He wore studs and rings through the normal fleshy appendages on his face and chest. His black hair was spiked. He may have been wearing black eye shadow. I don’t really remember, since the rest of the night was so memorable. I guessed he was a Goth of sorts and let it go there.

I sat at the bar, again wearing my nice dress shirt, clean blue jeans and comfy brown pull on shoes. I looked at the guys at the end of the bar. Sartorially, they were much better dressed than the jeans and Sturgis-shirted guys sitting at the tables—with women, I might add. The fellows at the end of the bar were fey, if that term still applies. They struck me as limp-wristed and a little too chatty and giggly. What I did not realize at the time, was that only single guys sat at the bar and the permanently single guys sat at the west end of the bar. I also didn’t realize that I was dressed a lot more like them than the guys who had girls.

I figured that by dressing up, I might meet a better class of woman. Of course the better class do not frequent the Starlight, ever—not on a bet—wouldn’t be caught dead there. I was fishing in the wrong stream here. My hook was baited for trout and there was nothing but carp in the water.

I sat there sipping my drink and trying to look both friendly and not bored. Suddenly, a baritone voice attacked me from my right.

“Hi, I’m Terry,” I heard. I introduced myself. I looked down at a pair of black engineer boots, black chaps, black Levi jeans—size approximately 40 waist and 28 inch inseam, biker belt buckle, black T-shirt with Harley shop logo, black leather vest, double chin, hairless face—doughy, jowly and effeminate, brown eyes and long tangled brown hair. Terry looks about 5 feet five inches tall, 175 pounds and 45 years old.

Terry owned a shovelhead and worked on the drill rigs outside of town. “Used to work construction, but the money was better on the rigs” Terry said.

I said “uh huh.”

Terry asks me, “Ya ever fuck a roughneck?”

I confessed that I had not had that pleasure.

“Well, ya wanna?”

At this point, I am somewhat nonplussed. This isn’t the ‘70s any more and people don’t just ask to fuck any more, do they? But then again, I try to get laid once a month and I haven’t met Miss April yet.
I look around the room. I don’t see a person I know, and no one who might know me. What the heck, I think, I’m 600 miles from home, who would ever know, right?

I told Terry that I don’t do this with just anybody, and especially not with complete strangers. “We have to dance first.”

The band, named the “internet” or the “interlopers” or the “intercourse” or something is a 1980s heavy metal band. They play AC-DC and Queen. I think that all the bands in Wyoming must be ‘80s tribute bands, either that or Country and Western—both kinds of music according to the Blues Brothers.

I told Terry, “next dance.” Well the gravel-voiced, shaved-headed, muscular lead singer said “We’re going to change the pace and play a blues number.”

Terry grabbed my hand and dragged me on to the dance floor, to the slow sounds of a blues romance tune. She threw her left arm around my waist and pulled me close to her pot belly. Her breasts rest upon the shelf of my gut and she put her calloused right hand into my left. Terry was quite light on her feet for being a rig hand.

As it turns out, Terry is a modern day Calamity Jane. She is a strong, independent woman who works men’s jobs in a man’s world. She has a 19-year-old daughter who she wants photographed for the magazine I work for. Terry is also betrothed to a guy who doesn’t drink or ride a motorcycle. After several hours of breathing second-hand cigarette smoke, I went home with a headache and not Terry.

I guess the next time someone asks if I’ve ever fucked a roughneck, I can honestly say no.

I now understand that Wyoming is a lot more liberal than Alan Simpson and Dick Cheney would have you believe.


Conversations overheard at the bar.

A guy wearing a black T-shirt that says “I’m not fucking stupid, but I used to” told his buddies that he wears this shirt when he visits his ex-wife.

Another guy said, “I woke up in the drunk tank. God, I felt awful, but it gets worse. When I open my eyes, there’s this big Indian holding his dick in my face. I knew it was going to get ugly.” The speaker paused for effect. “Then the Indian says, ‘Hey man, could you get your head out of the toilet, I gotta take a piss.’”

A guy holds his hands up like a calf roper. “Thirty seconds! I win!” Then he says to his buddy. “So I told the chick, ‘look baby if you practiced you would be better at this. It’s not my fault you can’t keep up.’”

And that’s all the news from Lake Woe is Me.