I am thoroughly shocked at my behavior. Oh, hell yes, I can and will party like a rock star. Especially when it comes to Jack Daniels. I developed a hankering for the stuff when I dated a heavy metal “shredder” guitarist a’ la CBGB’s and Whiskey A Go Go. Someone said it came with the territory. Anyway, since then I’ve managed to stay away from Jack and typically have a couple glasses of wine. Like a good girl…
Unfortunately, I went to Doctor Feelgoods in West Palm on Halloween. Well, that’s not where the story begins or even ends, but it was a big part of the middle. It began by renting a lovely B&B with a pool in a quaint section of W Palm for the week leading up to Halloween. Friends and I rented it from a couple of gay realtors that owned a bigger B&B directly across the street. These guys were really swell… Floral arrangements and fresh linens, artwork and books and all the touches a home or a B&B would need plus a bit of gay pride pizzazz, which I personally find welcoming. This socalled retreat/getaway progressed to a non-stop party for 4 days while working in between, which is basically a party, except I get paid, extremely well. Basically what I am trying to say is that I was in a nearly constant state of inebriation.
At Feelgoods, being the “rocker” chick I am or was purported to be, I made the most of it by feeling a tinge of reminiscence and I looked forward to living in the past temporarily. The cover band performing that night was doing material like Van Halen, Def Leopard, Aerosmith and of course Motley Crue, after all Vince Neil owns the place. The front man reminded me of an ex-boyfriend from years ago, so that was weird and icky and I found myself pounding the Jack. It made me a bit queazy; the vocalist, not the Jack. Not only did he look like my ex, and have the tight leopard pants to prove it, whilst carrying a 5lb bag of potatoes in his crotch, I must have looked like his ex too or at least like Vince Neil with my wild blonde curly rock n’ roll hair. We made some sort of rocker-telepathic connection. After 3 Jack’s I brazenly started tipping him dollar bills in his leopard tights like a stripper. Damn, I really wanted to put them between some of those fleshy parts but I think his gal in the wings was getting ticked off at him and was pouting and making those, “You’re gonna get it eyeballs”. Rule #1: If you’re gonna date a rocker, you better chillax. Trust me girl, I’m not interested in your guy. I’ve been to more rehearsals, studios, gigs and tours than I care to remember. I like professional, squeaky clean guys in a nice clean polo or dress shirt.
In walks Mr. Squeaky clean. White button down and khaki shorts. Sits himself near my area of the bar periodically shuffling his seat until after about an hour he was right next to me and carrying on with my group of friends as if we’d known one another for years. And I even thought there was something familiar about him. When Mr. Squeaky Clean and I begin to talk the first thing I find out is that he is a yacht captain and he gavre me his business card. Then he tells me he is from Richmond, BC. One week prior I met a gorgeous hall of fame LaCrosse player from Victoria, BC. What is up with that I wondered. Indeed….
Before long I was hailing a cab back to the B&B. Tagging along right behind me was the yacht captain. I had no intentions of letting this turn into anything let alone a one-nighter but surprisingly he jumped into my cab. I figured I would drop him at his hotel or yacht. Whatever…
But no, he forgot to mention a hotel, condo or yacht and I was not really paying too much attention but when the cab finally pulled up to my place, there he still was beside me, acting like a homeless, vehicleless, yachtless captain with no where to go. Obligingly, I told him to come in.
It was hot out so I decided to take a dip in the pool totally nude before completely crashing. Apparently the yacht-less, car-less captain did as well and it was not until morning that I found evidence of this.
When I awoke around 11 am and took my coffee poolside, I found the strangest thing. A pair of boxer shorts with Sponge Bob Squarepants emblazoned on them laying on the Mexican tiled patio.
My friends joined me outside for coffee and one remarked,” Eric left his number”. To which I replied,”Who is Eric?” My friends all laughed like hyaenas and told me the guy I brought home, as if I knew or had any recollection. Well, forgive me but I forgot his name so at that point I took it as a fact that that was his name. Then I remembered the shorts. I figured they must belong to one of my other friends staying with us and thought if they do then he must be suffering from arrested development or something because he’s a 46 year old music producer from LA. I couldn’t believe under that polished exterior lie a cartoon. My other friend had no idea what had transpired the night before and thought I brought some kid home. I was flabergasted. Maybe some streaker ran through the yard?????
By late afternoon everyone convinced me to take a picture of the shorts and send it via text to “Eric”. I complied and wrote, “Hi, nice meeting you last night. You left something behind, wink, wink “. Big mistake.
Turned out Eric was one of the gay realtors who had left his number on the kitchen table. I sincerely hope I didn’t cause a ruckus between him and his gay lover. Good lord.
Moral of the story: If you ever find boxer shorts with Spongebob Squarepants on them following a night of partying, don’t take a picture and don’t text anyone. And don’t tell anyone either. And try to remember yacht captains names especially when it’s Ferguson and the yacht is 260 feet long. It may prove to be important later on…