Rivercity blues 3
Yesterday afternoon, Tim Monzon called, saying he would be in Rivercity that evening. This offered an excuse to enjoy the town’s cultural ambience with another sophisticated Missoulian.
Tim Monzon is a 40ish fellow who has had several careers. He has been a railroad man, a highway patrolman, a janitor and is currently a sergeant in the US Army Reserve. Tim is a man of refined tastes and full of intellectual curiosity.
Therefore I took him to The Boot bar for “hot oil wrestling.” A van load of young ladies from California are touring the west offering displays of Amazon hand to hand combat. I was expecting something akin to World Federation of Wrestling competition but I was disappointed.
I paid $20 admission for the pair of us. We seated ourselves with Levi, a mop headed young man from Lander who was celebrating the week anniversary of his 21st birthday. I bought him another Coors Lite and we chatted as the anticipation built. The show started an hour late, giving us plenty of time to anticipate. A tall, slim, young (well nor that young) lady (well, probably not a lady either) with black dyed hair and black eye-liner chatted with Tim, Levi and I about living in Long Beach. I had a difficult time not looking at the six or seven inches of skin between her belly button and the top of her hot pants. This is because she was standing and I was sitting. She was blocking my view of the intoxicated, shave-headed, tattooed, beer-bellied, oil-field workers who were standing in front to the improvised stage. Those fellows were an animated wall of Orange County Choppers-logo, sleeveless T-shirts, rodeo belt buckles and cut-off, camouflage army fatigue pants.
I was so thrilled to have invested $10. This was much better that seeing Batman-the Beginning for $7.50.
Tim and I were dressed in 2nd hand Hawaiian shirts. Levi wore a brightly flowered Hawaiian shirt too. Again I knew I had made a sartorial error. I will order my West Coast Choppers T-shirt on the internet immediately. Yeah, me and 20 million 14-year-old boys – With Attitude!
Promptly a about 10 p.m., several women paraded through the crowd, dressed in “fantasy costumes.” The MC instructed us to yell “take it off” as pre arranged times as a signal to the ladies to remove a piece of clothing. And it worked too. When 20 big, ugly, hairy, greasy, armpit-smelly guys yelled “TAKE IT OFF” the woman in the middle of the room dropped her shirt, bra or pants. It took me 54 years to discover this secret. Why didn’t some one tell me sooner? Maybe it does not work when just one not-so-big-ugly-hairy-greasy- armpit-smelly guy meekly says this to a woman in a crowded bar. I will experiment with this idea when I get back to the Union Club, just for journalistic research purposes of course.
Woman wandered around as if in a daze. This could be due to some level of intoxication or perhaps a vacuum between their ears. I will bet their boy friends find either of these conditions to be a bonus later in the evening.
The MC told the assembled congregation of gentlemen that the girls were willing to sit politely on their laps for a mere $5. Off came the shirts as little portraits of Lincoln waved in the air. Huh? And they didn’t even have to yell take it off. Why didn’t anyone tell me before? Well, actually I knew that, but I am so cheap that I show ‘em a George, not an Abe. I guess I will have to step it up next time.
Some of the gents slumped to the floor and laid the back of their heads on the chairs before the girls could sit down. Imagine the ladies’ surprise when the expected comfy lap turned into a sharp nose. Most of the sits were short. Fortunately no one suffocated. A few guys started thrashing and waving their arms if the ladies sat too long.
Most of the oil wrestlers seemed a little thin and boney for the rigors of grappling on the very attractive blue plastic tarp ring. I don’t know what their exercise regimen was, but what ever it was, it resulted in voluminous breasts or at the least volcanic looking nipples. One lady’s nipples were so pert that she was able to carry lighted birthday candles on them. That caused a few flash bulbs to pop in the audience. Don’t you just love show biz?
The MC then auctioned off the opportunity to slather the wrestlers with hot oil. I guess that it was baby oil and not Wessen corn oil. I deduce this because the oil did not smell like the deep fat fryer at McDonalds. I tried to lick a belly as it went by, but was rebuffed in my journalistic research to check the flavor.
A 30s-40s something woman (with man attached) bid $40 to grease up a tall slim blond. The wrestler wore a bikini bottom and a thin, white wife-beater top, you know the kind that Marlon Brando wore in Streetcar named Desire. The woman from the audience had long, long light brown hair, pulled back into a braid down to her waist. She was slim as well—not at all like the barrel-shaped women that inhabit River City. The wrestler sat on the floor and flexed her muscles while the woman poured oil from a pint squirt bottle. The flexing involved thrusting her chest forward and spreading her legs while checking her crotch for lint. After the oil was poured, the two women rubbed their chests together to properly apply the lubricant. They kissed for a while and mutually grabbed ass.
Now, this was clearly in contravention of the rules that the MC laid out at the beginning of the evening. I guess this is another instance of the double standard in male-female behavior.
For some reason, both women’s shirts were transparent after the oil application. I guess this was the same principle that allowed early frontier families to make windows out of oiled parchment.
Another wrestler was similarly anointed. She too had blond hair, pert breasts, a transparent wife-beater shirt and bikini bottom. I did not know which one to bet on, since neither wore a number. It really didn’t matter since everyone in the bar stood up as a sign of respect when the girls started grabbing at each other. Tim and I could share the excitement aurially because all visual stimulation was blocked by a screen of sunburned shaved heads, uplifted tribal-tattooed arms, armpit hair and “Choppers ‘til you Die” black shirts. The crowd roared and jeered. Tim, Levi and I drummed our fingers on the table.
Two 21-year-old women came over to talk to Levi. They were shocked!, simply shocked! to see this kind of behavior in a rowdy bar in River City, Wyo. After an hour conversation and watching this sort of shocking activity, they decided to go to the Disco down the street. It was ladies night and drinks were half off. Levi followed with his tail between his legs. Oh wait! He didn’t have a tail. It must have been some other sort of male appendage that was long and hairless.
When the crowd of 200 pound pillars parted, we saw that the wrestlers had lost their shirts, and not a keno machine in sight. The women looked well slimed, being oiled all over like James Dean in Giant. The guys were standing at attention, or at least part of them were/was. The ladies slid through the crowd back to their dressing/undressing room and that was pretty much that.
It was midnight when Tim and I left the bar, having consumed our fair share of water and lime ($1.00 each). A car load of teenagers mooned us as we walked down the sidewalk looking for the next big thing on this full moon night.
And that is the news from Lake Woe is Me.