No Words…Just Emotions

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July 15, 2011 by Manny Wordsmith

I didn’t even really want to go to this bar, but it was my turn to follow Barwin to the depths of social awkwardness. I had taken him to many foul hangouts, surrounded by questionable characters with questionable allegiances. So it was his turn to bring us both out of our comfort zones to some bar we both would most likely despise.

We were meeting our mutual friend Brian, who along with his other accountant friends, thought it would be a good idea to head to Mr. B’s in Royal Oak.

The young lady that Brian was accompanying seemed frisky.

“Oh I had Brian taking shots of Vodka and Jack before we even got here,” she said “Doubles!”

I thought maybe we were in for some dirty number crunching party where this tall slender chick was planning on getting herself, and my mild-mannered friend Brian, drunker than teenage white girls in Cancun. Unfortunately, the chick ended up having the personality of a Brillo pad. And I’m not even saying that because she didn’t laugh at my perfectly placed accountant jokes. I just really didn’t hear her say anything important, funny, innovating or useful. And my jokes were really funny!

Barwin seemed content as we all leaned on what used to be pool tables that have now been converted to waist-high drink tables. But that’s B, cool as a glass of water. He laughed when he needed to, talked shit when it was necessary and took it all in when the silence presented itself. But when it comes down to it, he thinks a lot like me.

“The drink prices are a bit steep, but the eye candy seems worth it.”

There was a girl there who looked just like Whitney Houston’s character in ‘The Bodyguard’. She sported a slim cut black blazer with shoulder pads and short black shorts that rolled up at the ends. Not to mention black Keds and a black tank-top. I found this very sexy. I didn’t expect my hipster nerdar to go off in that place at all. Mostly because it housed more of the run-of-the-mill party girls with strapless shirts and Coach brand clutches than any idealistic girls who looked like Kelly Kapowski or Laura Winslow.

I had to react. Even though most of the girls from this delicate variety assume, because of the people I keep close (mostly white people…but cool white people, no stereotypes…at least not the un funny ones.), that I’m some type of poser or ‘wannabe’. Completely ridiculous. I don’t even like white people.

Before I got my chance to talk to this young chocolate beauty, her and her friends rushed the dance floor to some DJ Khaled song.

“Maybe I had her wrong,” I thought.

Her replacement wasn’t far behind her.

She was in the form of a dark-haired blue-eyed girl who walked by me and gave me the most straight forward ‘fuck me’ look I have ever seen. And I don’t get many. The looks I usually get say, “Come on, get closer so I can ask you the time.” Or my personal favorite, “Stand closer so the other black guys know I dig interracial.” Usually my trick is to make the girls laugh their on clothes off. Even though that concept may seem full proof, I still have trouble with it…Any way, the look. I was magnetized so I follow her, and the blond that was pulling her along, closer to the dance floor. They stop and she turns to me, I move closer, she smiles, and before I can even say hello she’s already in my arms. For a quick second I thought, “Win!”. But it was too easy, too clear, to precise. And in the next second this beautiful, young, girl, garbed in a tight grey hoodie and light blue shirt, turned her head sideways and licked the entire right side of my face…yup.

I wasn’t as blown away as I was intrigued. I wanted to see what was coming next. I wanted to see what this was going to turn too. Was I going to lick her face? Her titty maybe? Maybe she just missed and my mouth was being saved for round two! All of those things sounded reasonable in the moment, but none came to pass. Instead, this girl pushed off me in this “I’m creeped out” disgusted way, like I didn’t taste good or something. This disgust only lasted another second until she noticed that I was wearing a pearl-button shirt.

So she grabbed both sides of my plaid button-down and ripped it open, exposing my undershirt. It was really fast and it caught me off guard…or that’s at least the excuse I’m going with. At this point I’m asking her, “Who are you?” “What’s your name?” “Do you wanna go some place quieter?”. But nothing is going through. She’s as silent as a statue, but with the sexual prowess of a coked out porn star. After she sees that I’m wearing an undershirt she gives me a disappointing look, rubs my stomach, smiles, then tries to rip the undershirt! When her small hands can’t complete the task, she just settles for sticking her entire arm through the top part of my sky blue Hanes tee.

While all this is happening, her blond friend is searching for some guy. When she finally quits she turns, and without skipping a beat, she tells her friend, “Lets go.” and her mute friend takes her arm out of my shirt, smiles once more and skips away out of the bar.

I was stunned, flabbergasted and just angry at the fact that I was just molested in the middle of the bar and had no sense to react at all! The entire time I was thinking, “Maybe Helen Keller here will snap out of this weird fit and talk to me like a normal girl!” but no luck, no words…just emotions.

If you’ve read my stories, you’re probably beginning to see a pattern.

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