One A is for Anna

Two As at the end of the night, sisters, one older (31) one younger (by how much?), one nameless, one named Anna. Guess who looks 25, yes, the sugar-lipped blonde, Anna, her Northern Wisconsin accent a warm cabin fuck on an otherwise cold night. (The younger, another A, left her name at the office that Saturday night; I cannot find it). But let's back up to the beginning:

One drink at the office and I crash a birthday party of 6 (all 6 girls live together) that had just taken off and was growing by the minute. No notepad (a la Dr. 4130) so I can't recall the birthday girl, but I recall Melissa, and her pal with the shaved head (think Sinead O' Connor). I like long flowing hair and if it hits a girl's asscheeks (if it's that long), I might fuck my self up for her. Perhaps maybe. Maybe I'd momentarily overlook my own happiness. 'Medium' length hair or 'short' hair doesn't work. A shaved head, though, I want and expect bruises. Far preferable to those who won't grow locks to their ass. I finished my drink and bailed because I wanted neither bruises nor the mediocrity that is anything but long flowing ass-covering locks.

Head to CL, nothing, one tour, goodbye bouncer, no drink, in car to garage. Another birthday party. Brad's birthday brought his married women, all of them, each one of them hot. They liked I did not mind of kids and marriage while gazing into their green and blue eyes. Show me a picture of your infant, but I still want to fuck you. Confident guys shouldn't mind this and enjoy the flirting of their wives. I told Rachel about her green eyes and reminded her of their beauty. "What was your name again?" she said. That's as good as a number, to make a new mother feel wanted. But the Old Style at the garage goes for a half hour before a final night of retirement at the inn. 7 wings and a Budweiser. Nothing to pursue, which is rare for the inn.

Time to go home. No, why not the gunclub? One can go there defeated or to prime the pump, and I went with a limited and disciplined agenda. Not shocked to be propositioned there, and a hot dirty touch-me-wherever-you-want-to lapdance, two songs. When it's over I spot 7 lesbians pouring in the club, and of course I hit on the muscle of of the group who tells me, with a New Orleans' drawl, one that still lingers in elegance, "Get the fuck out of hear," the same sonnet often recited to drunks who overstay their welcome. Madame, my word.

But this would not send me home in despair or disdain. I understood the muscle of the group had to protect the more delicate and impressionable of the dykes, so no grudge. Ladies in comfortable shoes. Party on. I will still eat more pussy.

So back to the office at 11:30. It is hard to get the Jamison. I look at the other end for a better place to hustle for my drink, and the two As are there, making themselves manifest. I make my way over, and two Jante cruise ships disembark to hijack. They are promptly turned away by heaver caliber cannon fire from the 2As. Not wanting to sustain such damage myself (I am barely armored), I stand behind their line of fire and wait to order. But the As turn to me unarmed, and invite me to convene at the Paris treaty. The sisters work cooperatively, brunette fading to a Jante (my bad, I could not focus on both and laid my cards to the blonde). Long flowing blonde hair, two servings of lips, an extraordinary spectrum of rarefied woman. We speak until the bar closes at 2 and was a coward not to kiss her. Email instead.

Some end their night at nudie clubs out of rejection and frustration. For the 25 minutes I spent at the gunclub I felt a mixture of embarrasment (watching the girls writhe spiritless) and ecstasy (grinding my junk against a nude hot girl). It was artificial and I hate pet names such as "sugar" and "darlin." I preferred the "get the fuck out of here" from the dyke. The gunclub set me straight and put me back on the straight path to conduct unmediated by 3 minute songs.

There are many theories on the start of the golden age, but it's fucking simple: whiskey and cognac and the end of (to quote W. Monk) motherfucking simulacre.