I like men. I really do. I like all things male. I like that they grow hair places we don’t. I like that their muscles develop in ohh such yummy ways. I love defined biceps and calves. I like that they can look great without makeup. Now that’s a plus. I like that they fly fighter jets, race in regattas or play rugby…. I like hockey and bull riding. To me, those are sports worth watching. Fast, few rules, lots of aggression and generally really cute guys. Even with their teeth popped out and blood on their faces. In fact, it makes them even cuter! I have no time to sit for hours eating junk food and watching guys far too large to effectively make a sport, well, sporting. Or to watch a clock tick down only to find out that the 0:00 on the ticker means another 45 minutes to figure out who really won or to give the team that sucked more time. To me that is just crazy. Give me balls to the wall, rip-roaring action. Or just forget about it. And let’s get it done in a reasonable amount of time. Hockey, 60 minutes, or less. Bull riding, 8 seconds.
So I don’t want you to think that I view men or “The Customer” in a negative way. In fact I have deep, abiding love for them from the bottom of my heart. Their successes and failures mean something to me. Their lives are important to me. Their photos of their wives and kids make me feel downright mushy. Except when I remind a guy of his ex. That creeps me out and I usually excuse myself and go powder my nose in the ladies room. Other than that I find men in general to be just large versions of little boys and that’s just cute. Well, most times….
Where I used to work we did on occasion get peculiar customers and that is what I want to discuss today. I will in future posts write about some of the other customer typesets, i.e., The Regular, The Drunk and The Asshole and obviously protect the names of the innocent and not so innocent but today I want to tell you mostly about Joker Face.
About a year ago a man of about 62 came into my night club. An obvious case of andro pause. He came in with a swagger, a swanky, skanky demeanor and a look straight out of a 70’s porno. From clear across the bar I could see this one, with my limited vision, coming. Note: I purposely do not wear vision correction to save myself from the horrors of Mankind. But I did not need to see him. I could smell him. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I’ve developed very acute sensory apparatus and I utilized it at all times at work. My senses never fail me. Booze will, but that’s another story.
Anyway, as he approached, making a bee-line straight for me, I shuddered. I know I need to be polite, cordial and possibly even overtly friendly with this creature, but I was quaking in my corset and thigh high boots. He absolutely reeked of cheap men’s cologne, (see Part 4 Toilet Guy) and his face was contorted and stretched like a Remo drum head for all you drummers out there, you know what I mean. Literally, he was the male version of Phyllis Diller. His face was so taught and pulled back he looked as though he had just done a scene in Top Gun and experienced Mach 8. I gasped.
Sauntering up to me at the bar I held my ground. He eyeballed me like a wolf salivating over a newborn calf. He began his approach with the infamous,”I could fuck you and you’d love it ” line. Which was followed by inexplicable requests that I can only imagine belonged in a foreign film from Sweden or maybe Japan or god knows where really. I remember hearing the vernacular words for male anatomy and female, until my ears nearly bled. On the verge of vomiting and totally horrified I felt my knees go weak. I nodded compliantly and began pouring a scotch. Holy shit I was creeped out but played the game the best I could muster. Suggesting that I join him and his cohorts in a Swingers Club, this guy was on a mission. The visuals coming into my mind were bombarding my ability to think and speak with any coherence whatsoever. I was sure I must by now look like Billy Bob Thornton in Slingblade or the kid in The Shining. Redrum! Redrum! Face and hair slightly askew, marginally slurred speech, crossed eyes and maybe some drool coming from the corners of my mouth. Please god, let this end painlessly and quickly…
He actually slipped me $100. Gratuitously, I grabbed it and ran for my life.
He came in now and then, with a couple of young and clearly semi-conscious, from north of nowhere, slightly inebriated looking females on each arm. I think he must drug those girls. Or they just got out of a lifetime in solitary confinement. I guess they’re content being The Joker’s sex slaves. Whatever, but how gross! He always slipped $100 my way but minus his charming banter. Thankfully my Slingblade impression scared him off some, but not completely. I guess in the hopes we will have mad, buck wild sex while being viewed by his geriatric crew one of these days, he continued to periodically pop into my world. Thank goodness I will never see him again.
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