Classy Gents Vol. 1

I'd had a Stella no more than twenty minutes before we got to the bar. I was halfway through my vodka tonic when (we'll call him Mr. Mustache) got up, sauntered all the way across the bar and brought me my second. I felt my eyebrows form a sort of half question mark across my face. It was met by the information that I am a slow drinker. Fair enough, but why hurry? We'll be here a while won't we?

The, er, gentleman sitting on a low couch across from me leans back, legs apart, and strokes his mustache, before shifting forward in his seat towards me. I was moving on to drink two and paused, swizzled the ice around with the straw 'till it formed a mini-maelstrom of carbonated vodka, waiting in the loaded moment for the impending words to fall out from under the 'stache.

"So, uh... how 'classy' are we gettin' tonight, mmm?"

Have you ever squirted vodka out of your nose? Neither have I, but I can imagine it would burn like hell. Luckily I'd waited to take that sip, or I'd be able to say exactly how vodka felt to the nasal cavities.

He followed his inquiry with- I kid you not- the double eyebrow shrug. That's both eyebrows- both eyebrows wiggled twice in rapid succession. Oh man. A single laugh forced itself out of my throat while my brain sinapses played tennis with words in some vain sporting attempt to form a response.

When I met him, admittedly in another bar, I'd been intrigued by the curled-up 'stache, the smooth dance moves and easy going conversation. The way he didn't seem to take himself too seriously. But now as my laugh was met by the question marks in two piercing, ice blue eyes, it struck me that it was I who didn't take him too seriously. But maybe he took himself more seriously than I'd assumed.

Laughter danced in my stomach like malicious moths fighting for freedom. I refused to free it for fear of offending.
I've since learned to be more offensive from time to time.

the Tug of War

Sometimes I feel my life would be easier lived as two or more parallel selves. This would be sure to eliminate the almost certain hypocrisy from my being.

I could be spiritual, and a hedonist. I could be optimistic and dark. Without being at war with myself. Without worrying about scrutiny over my actions- past, present, future- to be allowed a certain respect for my more professional endeavors without causing concern over my overall intentions, without the feeling I may need to censor myself- to make myself more fit for public consumption in word and deed.

I am facing the impending task of needing to carry myself with dignity and professionalism. I am run the risk of finding myself running amongst (or in my case amok?) a circle of role models, under some kind of behavioral microscope. Scrutiny. But maybe I'm over thinking all of this, as I am apt to over think most things. Still...

Professionalism. Dignity. Transcendence even? What does this mean?

Dare I attempt climb this higher path after enlightenment while dragging my mind behind in the gutter? How much public hedonism am I allowed now? And is private hedonism now some kind of secret breach of contract with my public self's image? How much of our humanity affords us the luxury to be a mess without falling apart?
Oh, The Id and the Superego, they war! They bend and stretch the ego, until it becomes quite thin and elastic.

Sexual Tragicomedy

Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to...
seduce?
Well, in a way, I suppose seduction itself is not a far cry from deception. You bundle up all of the physical and personality traits that are your sexiest, and fling them at your intended victim like a really lacy thong. Or something like that.