It is about 11 p.m. on a sweltering and wet, late-July, Monday evening. I am sitting at the bar of the Open Bar, sipping off a pint of Heineken and occasional shots of Rumplemintz, exhausted from a long, rough weekend of boozing and drug using.
It is quite dead in the bar-thankfully so, as I am drained and spent like the sinks and tips of last Tuesday's bar shift. That is, until about midnight, when the house suddenly fills and I become surrounded by the bustling and laughing of the Pacific Beach hardly-21 set, which is so not where my head is at the moment, and I really don't care to be rubbing up against anyone tonight. Especially not the group of backward-ball-cap tank-top brat packers who are nudging into my personal space on the right, or the belly-baring whirly-girls who are ordering lemon drops and surging into my personal space on the left.
Now, one of those whirly girls, through no fault of her own, is so much up into my zone on this sweltering late-July evening that the space between our skins is as thin as a layer of sprayed-on tanning oil, and before even realizing what is happening, I become completely enveloped by the Invisible Cloud of Her Sex.
Definition: "The Invisible Cloud of Her Sex" is that moist, warm, intoxicating feeling that envelops a male when he is in close proximity of the female. The invisible cloud of her sex is like an aura, only thicker, headier-it's her aura on ecstasy. When a man is lost inside her feminine fog, he becomes more beast than man: A gorilla in the mist. Because being inside it is like being in a time machine. It will hurtle him back to when he was a primate, and a millennia of de-evolution will urge him to do something, anything, anything to make the woman his own. Like conk her over the head and drag her back to the cave-or, for the more modern-day brute, simply reach out and grab her ass.
Ah, the common ass-grab. What woman alive or dead can say that she has never had her latter assaulted by some roving, anonymous butt-monger? And pity the poor cocktail waitress who must suffer the fingers of impropriety on a nearly nightly basis. Nobody is molested more than the cocktail waitress. But most cocktail waitresses, like most women, don't fully understand their role in the molestation. They don't fully understand how their vapors affect a man, because there is no comparable anomaly in males.
Men don't emit a Cloud of Sex that consumes women. Instead, men have the Bulldozer of Their Penis. And a bulldozer is conspicuous and loud and slow and easy to dodge-unlike her cloud, which is invisible, swift, all-encompassing and mind-controlling and urges men to do very bad things. The strong males manage to repel their Neanderthal urges and not grab her ass. The weaker ones cannot resist.
And tonight, at the Open Bar, I am weak; too weak to resist her sultry smog. I am weakened from a weekend of boozing and drug using, jacked from tonight's beers and Rumplemintzes and floating in and out of her miasma... and oh, she is delicious, I think, when she turns her back to deliver lemon drops to friends, displaying her magnificent buttocks to me oh my; each flank is a perfect, tear-shaped lemon drop of its own, as though the condensation of her sugary, wet sex-cloud has dripped down her back and coagulated at the tops of her thighs... and my hand is extending toward her now, and I don't know why my hand is doing that, but oh to squeeze her lemons and... whammo flop slammo bang! I am snatched out of her Jacuzzi of love by Leanne the bartender.
"Another Heiney?" she asks.
"God yes," I say, pushing the glass forward.
OK, in reality, I would never blaspheme the bulbs of a stranger. Even if I weren't a bartender, and had not seen countless ass-pinchers pummeled by jealous boyfriends, or had not, myself, dragged countless bum batterers out of the bar by the belt-even if I was just a regular guy in for a pint, it would just not be in my nature. Oh, I've thought about it before. Thinking about it is totally within my nature. But there is no amount of alcohol in this or any bar that could make me act on a such a thought.
And I'm sitting here at the Open Bar-finally free from her oily funk-and wondering: Where are these guys who actually reach out and tweak the rudders of total strangers? I know you're out there. Who are you? What is your motivation? Do you think it's an effective way to seduce a woman? Is it the lust of the hunt? Or is it just drunken stupidity?
I've always wanted to know. So I'm sending out a request to all ass-grabbers. Please send me an e-mail telling why you grab the ass. Tell me what happens when/if you get caught grabbing the ass. Tell me about your ass-grabbing aspirations (do you want to fondle the asses of senators and first ladies, or are you happy doing your ass-grabbings on waitresses and secretaries?) Are there ass-grabbing social clubs? (It's best not to visualize that one). Is there an ass-grabbers code of ethics? A guide? A manual? Do tell. I'll publish your letters anonymously and guarantee confidentiality. ©