I've got so much material, so much rich material from this weekend alone, the blog is probably not going to suffice. It was like every 15 minutes, a scene occurred just for me, all interesting and glittering and bizarre and even surreal. Every 15 minutes I thought, my god, this shit doesn't stop tonite, does it?
So I wrote about the peeing off the boat. So much for yacht hair...I almost saw yacht penis.
After the boating, we took a cab to a place at the beach that clearly is one of Southern Gent's hang outs. Restaurant/club. Good food. The evening begins at the very crowded bar, where we nab two seats, and he allows Harley Girl and I to sit. I think, how nice. What this allows for, though, is for him to mingle and hang with his cronies. What a bunch of rich, connected jerks.
First tidbit: We meet a friend of his who is a judge there in that district. Nice enough at first. We are all having trouble getting drinks. The place is packed, college boy bartender is clearly in the weeds. I'm patient, knowing he'll get to us when he gets to us. The judge, however, who clearly has trouble making eye contact - that is, unless he thinks my breasts are eyes and if that's the case then he's got me locked in a stare- says, "Why don't you just stand up and lean over the bar? That ought to get great service..."
Wow and you enforce and uphold the laws of the land down here, huh?
I have to say, he seems shocked when I answer him in detail about who I work for and what I do. Omigod, she's smart too and she has boobs. Who is this mythical creature. I liked the look of fear in his eyes, made me fuck with him a little more. I was ridiculously sweet to his date -whom everyone else was ignoring and whom he didn't bother to introduce to us to.
Another crony kept telling Harley girl and I that he was married. I wanted to look around and say that he clearly had us confused with someone who gave a damn about who he was. Your big summer house in Pine Knolls Shores does not impress. (Nor does your shocking orange surf shirt, which incidentally matches the shocking blue shirt found on the judge. Their Tommy Bahama uniforms must have been worn the evening before. )It doesn't overcome the fact that you are bald. And scrawny. And I'm imagining this whole crowd with ED and prostate issues and this just does not get me all excited.
(I'd like to find young and moneyed. So far, I've already had for almost 18 months young, cheap, unmoneyed, rude and cruel. I've now experienced older, moneyed, rude, and generous. )
Waiter, please, can I have young, moneyed, and nice? Is that even on the menu?
I digress.
Southern Gent asks me to go see Chicago for the next night in Raleigh. By Chicago I mean cheezy, horn-heavy, boring ass white guy music. I think, why not. I'll overlook the pissing thing. I'll overlook the rude rich friends A girl's gotta eat.
He proceeds to ask if he can stay at my house.
The look of shock on my face (I was not filtering at this point. I had lost interest in acting.) stopped him short. He added, "In your spare room- or couch."
Yes, I have a spare room thank you. No, you cannot sleep over.
He's miffed I'm not giving in to this. Ugh. Dude, you are hanging by a thread, don't bring your own knife edge and start swinging it around over your head.
Fast forward a few minutes. Oh the judge has returned to our area. Yippee. They begin to talk about the two week vacay in BVI. I listen. No feigned excitement. My parents did that trip 8 years ago, didn't sound all that impressive to me then, and it certainly doesn't now with these wahoos. Southern Gent says he's going to bring me, his new gf. I laugh nervously, but charmingly add a random "sounds like fun" in there somewhere between the twittering.
He then sticks his foot in his mouth by announcing that I would have to put out for that trip.
WOW.
Did he say that? I'm deaf in one ear. I'm pretty sure he said it. Yeah, I'm pretty sure he said it. Surreal. I don't need to editorialize on that one. It stands tall on its own, a warning to women everywhere.
I didn't justify that with a response. My bladder was full and the bathroom - with all its own glamourous activities - was beckoning.
I return to my seat 5 minutes later, more confident than ever, just saying to myself, "what the hell else could happen tonite?" I sit next to the guy that Harley girl was talking to previously. He is not a crony of Southern Gent, but he's got a mouth on him too and proceeds to tell me, during a rapid-fire, Lorelai and Rory-like exchange, the following items:
- Why didn't I marry you?
- You should know that I'm gay
- I'm gay and I'm married
- No, I'm married to woman and gay with a man lover
- How's your husband?
- He's not your husband, he's your boyfriend?
- You DID NOT just meet him today
- Let me guess, Match.com?
- What friend dislikes you that much?
- We would have beautiful children
- They would be able to run really fast - I can run like the wind
- He's not worthy
- He's a tool
- You aren't going to date him again, are you?
That was all in less than 60 seconds. My answers to each of those questions were just as quick.
We leave the bar area, finally! to go see the Journey, Semisonic, Black Crowes, Police cover band in the back. There is a woman there, older than my own mother, wearing a shirt that says:
Went on vacation. Came back on probation.
Oh! You went to Myrtle Beach and got that shirt. Ahhh I get it, I get it. White trash humour. Knee slapper.
Even better. Two women on the dance floor. Clearly in their mid fifties. Skinny legs, huge huge I- look -pregnant-but-can't-possibly be-cuz-I-am-that-old beer guts. They are dancing around with toilet paper tied around their foreheads. I don't know why. I don't understand why no one else is even watching them. It's a car wreck! I can't look away! Am I seeing things?! What am I doing here? Oh and they know the older one who is apparently now on probation because of the spoils of whatever sort of trouble she rassled up down there in Myrtle. Of course they know her. Sometimes the beach crowd is weird.
Had enough? I had.
We leave in a cab. He makes the driver take him home first. So we can see his house. Yes, okay Southern Gent, dude you have a nice big house. A cool, purebred yellow lab. I like the golf course view. I like the cars (plural that is. Swimming pools, movie stars...) I like the country club address, I do.
I do not think you are nice.
And since I have already done one tour recently with a not at all nice guy who looked good on paper but wore stiped shirts, and this experience has taught me to once again stand up for myself, I will overlook the generosity, the money, the cars, the lovely lovely lovely dog I met, the boat, the southern charm, the breeding, the shagging, the clever drop of the rs, the full head of hair, the confidence at the helm of the boat, the prep school and political connections. I will overlook all of this because I deserve all this PLUS NICE.
And now I'm off looking for it.
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