Looking through photos this morning, I came across this rare shot — rare, for there are only about two photos of all four editors of Suffering Is Hip Magazine in existence as we all move around a great deal and are rarely found en masse, en junto.
This was in San Francisco, I seem to recall, after we had "high tea at Lyon's." You know.
I know not whether the backdrop was intentional or random. I almost hope the latter because, as we have long said, "Absurditas es fortis nostrum."
I got to work around 10 last night, a bit groggy from just waking up. First thing out of my mouth upon arriving at Lounge Lizards: "Oh my!"
There was a couple at the bar, playing some serious tonsil hockey. Or like the woman was bulemic, but had her fingers tragically amputated in a freak pottery class incident, and required the aid of the gentleman's tongue to bring up her dinner of three tic-tacs. Or like she had swallowed a fly, and the man took it upon himself to retrieve it using his secret Pokémon power of FrogTongue™. Or … yeah … you know.
Co-worker Alex was having none of it. "God those people are workin' my nerves!"
"Don't worry, I'll deal with them for the rest of the night," I said, laughing at her scowl and pain.
Co-worker Angie was hangin' out at the bar. At one point, she cried urgently, "Marquis! Go look in the men's bathroom!"
(This line is only surpassed in grossness by, "I think this milk has turned; here, smell it!")
"Okay, I'll 'get right on that'," I said as I busied myself doing other things for a few minutes.
The cries continued: "Oh my god! Quick! Go to the men's bathroom!"
"All right, all right! Sheesh!"
I went. Saw nothing unusual, and went back to the bar, giving Angie a quizzical look.
"You're too late," she informed me. "Those two at the end of the bar were totally gettin' it on in there."
"Yah," added Juan, "I was in there peeing, and the woman was grinding that guy against the wall, and she turned to me — I was peeing — and asked me if, while getting a blowjob, I liked it when someone sticks a finger up my ass."
I looked down the bar to find the original couple had been joined by a second. Couple #1 was still at it. The bloke was still diligently trying to dislodge an obstruction from the woman's throat, poor dear. Couple #2, however, had moved past such elementary CPR manœuvres. She was reclined on the barstool, tipping at a dangerous angle, feet up on the bar like in a gynocologist's stirrups, while the guy stood between her legs dry-docking her through their clothes.
Alex: "Jeezus Fucking Christ, these people make me sick. I'd rather picture my parents having sex than have to watch this!" She turned away in disgust to look at the television, where Howard Stern was making a mayonnaise sandwich with bologna and cheese on some stripper's ass. Poor Alex.
At one point, Couple #2 had to come up for air. The guy backed away from his valiant steed (stirrups and all, don't forget), and I nearly choked on my Sprite.
"Alex! Ohmuhgawd! Look!"
He was fiddling around with his pants, buttoning, zipping and belting.
"Did we just witness actual sex?" I asked.
"I certainly hope not," she replied, her disgust redoubling.
Ordinarily, I'd just kick people out who were copulating on my bar (without my prior nod of approval), but a morbid sense of curiosity prompted me to let things lie (or, get laid, as the case may be), just to see how ridiculous a situation could get. One must remained Amused, after all. Do you blame me?
Eventually, the pheromones in the room were thicker than the smoke from the fog machine. There was nothing else to be done short of procreation or DVDA. The two loving couples made to leave. I went to close their bar tab.
"Hi, what do we owe?" asked Stirrup Woman. "By the way, you're really sexy."
"No, but I mean, like, you're really hot!"
I blinked at her, quickly going through my mental files of (un)suitable responses to this. I landed on, "At this point, I'd wager that you'd find a lamp post beguiling," borrowing the line from one of Mordantia Bat's short stories. (Thanks, Bat!)
The woman responded classically: "Huh?"
"Uh, $39, please," I said with my drippiest smile.
"I do the same thing when cops pull me over. Men love to be flattered. Just give 'em some bullshit line about how cute they are. They always let me get away without a ticket."
I was about to reply, "So, wait, let me get this straight, you're telling me that what you just said to me is bullshit, and you — what — hope to get out of your bar tab?"
Instead, I said, through my plastered smile, "$39 please."
They paid and left. Alex grumbled and fumed.
"If it's any consolation, they tipped us $22," I informed her.
"It wasn't worth it."