Bury Me in My Levis with a Frisbee and a Kiss

In the name of free press, I was gathering material last night.  My buddy—let’s call him MacTiger for the sake of anonymity—was chatting it up with two handsome fellows when I came in—let’s call them Free Willy and Rock.  I love men in the south because even when a lesbian walks into a gay bar a girl gets offers for a chair!

              “Well?” MacTiger says after 45 minutes of lively chatter.

              “Huh?” I smile back.

              “Do you want to sit where you can actually see the women?”

              “No.”

I remembered the flyer that I had printed before I left and the reason why I had called MacTiger to go with me to the boys’ bar (because there is a girls’ bar but it opens at midnight and I was too old to start at midnight when I was young enough to start at midnight).  

There are only a few Saturdays a year when more than two or three girls go out and that’s on the nights when LSU plays.  Finding this information by accident last week—after MacTiger and I lost $40 at the roulette table but got two free beers to drink while we sat on the deck of the casino boat and watched the sunset—put me into motion this week. But, I had only made it as far as a bar stool that’s tucked in a dark corner.

So, knowing that I’m a light weight and most of the girls will leave at half-time because LSU is pounding this unranked team, I count the minutes that I have left to execute my plan.  I begin to look around for where I could plant my flyer and where it would generate the most interest before management could wad it up.  It was fortuitous that I had to go to the bathroom because that gave me my only idea. 

After my next drink, I check on the status of my flyer and was ecstatic that 2 of the 8 tabs had been pulled off.  I have a fan base!  I popped up from the lieu and buttoned my Levis. 

          “You know, you could buy new jeans—something that compliments your figure,” my Ex had said when she pulled her new jeans out of the dryer to put in her overnight that she was packing for her tryst with the twentysomething.

          “You loved me in my Levis,” I said.

          She shrugged.  

“I’ll be buried in button-ups!” I screamed inside.     

I’ve already picked the pair that fits me best.  I don’t have a top, but it might be the tee that Rotel bought for me when we went to NOLA.  It’s black with yellow words, “I sometimes wonder why the Frisbee gets bigger, and then it hits me.”  If I can get the black to fade more, it will probably go with me and my Levis to heaven.

I feel something wet on the back of my arm and begin to turn around in the very small area like a cat chasing its tail and realize that a strip of the protective toilet paper has come up with my Levis and is popping water all around my backside. 

“God Almighty!  How would that look to my fan base?”

Feeling relieved, I slide-swagger back to my stool.  MacTiger hasn’t seen my blog, but he’s discussing the idea with Free Willy who wants to start a blog of his own.  For years he has been taking note of the lack of manners between men on porn-pick-up sites.  He’d like to start a "Ms. Manners" page so that men know when and what to say when and why.  I think this is a brilliant idea.  

We are not long into the conversation before the manager (who happens to be a lesbian!) pushes a flyer in front of us. Of course, I worry about the competition and wonder if she's torn up my flyer and is showing me what a real promotional looks like.  This one has color ink, but you'd expect that from the marketing director of a drag queen.  A marketing agent for a lesbian wouldn't have as much to work with — except the Levis. 

“This is why men don’t go out [in Baton Rouge],” Free Willy waves the promo in the air. 

MacTiger and Rock nod in agreement.

“Why do ‘we’ still do drag shows?  Who wants to see that?”

“Strippers!” MacTiger hollers over the football game that we’re not watching.  “We want male strippers!”

“It’s true. I would rather see male strippers than a drag show.”  MacTiger, Free Willy and Rock smile after my moment of an impossible shared thought.

With LSU creaming yet one more team, the charity-money-generating jambalaya sitting in our bellies, and the smoke rising in the poorly ventilated space, Free Willy had had enough for the night.  He dismissed himself.   I followed him out.  Looking over the parking lot, I thought it would be easy to leave my half-full Corona on the bar.  MacTiger could definitely take care of himself.  Still, I had not come this far to go home without at least a “hello.”  But, I did… but not for long.