Now I’m not one to pass judgment on a whole group of people, especially when I know next to little about them. So it was with this mindset that I set out for an afternoon at our local Buffalo Wild Wings with two Hooters girls and some guys I met at the mall, of all places.
It was an eclectic mix: a couple of young Army officers, a just-got-out former troop, a clothing-store clerk, myself and a couple of curvaceous trophy girls from our local breast exposition.
On me right quick. A lot of cats think I’m damn hilarious, which is very flattering. Guys, especially ones I had chuckling through the deployment, always are saying things like, “Dude! You’ve GOT to come out with us now that we’re back!” thinking that my wit and charm (begrudgingly admitted, har har) is like a microwave dinner–frozen in wait until popped in an oven, frazzed out for two minutes and bam! instant comic relief. Thus the reason for my invite.
What these poor saps don’t realize is that subtle accents and observed comments are best served in a venue that doesn’t list deafening sports or music ambiance as features.
That’s why I usually avoid the club scene. Having to screech into my neighbors ear about how the napkins stick to my glass isn’t that fun, in my opinion, and having to repeat-screech anything longer than three words kind of dampens the normal material.
All that to say that I’m usually quiet at these spots. But the ladies were in their element, used to talking in that sort of vibe, sort of like how dentists know what the heck you’re saying as they put several metal probes throughout your mouth.
“So you like Hooters?” one of our boys asked during a break in the 12 football games beamed throughout the super-televisioned bar.
“Yeah, it’s SOOOO much fun!” said one of the more “buxom” blonds, M. “We totally like live there. We’re there all the time,” she motioned to her friend. “Like last week, I worked 100 hours.”
“No, that’s 100 hours for two weeks,” explained M2 (also an M, but for the sake of the story, we’ll go with M2). “Someone had to explain it to me too.”
“Oh. All I know is that it said 100 hours on my pay tab.”
“Yeah, but it’s 100 hours every two weeks.”
“Oh. So that’s like, what? 50 hours a week?” *Laughs* “I worked 50 hours last week.”
Things went like that for a while, the guys drifting back and forth from game to game, the girls going on about their 60-something regular who tips each of them $100 per visit, five days a week.
“He says we’re totally like his granddaughters. He just has SOOOO much money,” M2 told me, amazed. “He’ll always buy us stuff. He’ll be like, “I know M will like that!” and he’ll just get it.”
“And you don’t think that’s a little wierd?” piped in the just-out former troop.
That set off a whole defensive thing with the girls. Our concensus was that 60-year-old men buying young waitresses thousands of dollars of stuff in addition to tipping thousands of dollars a month was a little strange. They didn’t like that at all.
“We just enjoy his company,” M said, a little tiffed, and went into a pout and pushed her head-sized breasts out in a sort of one-two “this will end the discussion because I’m cute” move. Yibbida yibbida.
Lets see. What else? We had a frank discussion on what Jessica Simpson song was the best to dance to while at work. We talked about how one of the young officer guys had great teeth. And we got to hear about how the M’s were going to stop eating this week to lose five pounds by Saturday, when they were going to be ring girls at an ESPN-broadcast boxing event.
Side comments included the fact that guys are always saying they should be in Playboy–and there’s nothing wrong with that, they say, it’s just a way to get your face “out there.” It’s the same reason they do the ring-girl gig–a chance to get out there.
Is that fame? I suppose so, for a lot of people. It’s always a wonder how girls line up to do the Internet porn thing. Not even the big stars in the “professional” circuit, but the thousands of girls that come and go in those emails that everybody seems to eventually get. Is it that “somebody” saw you “somewhere” that’s the goal?
The M’s are just living their lives, they say. “If you’re young and have a good body, you might as well flaunt it. You just need to get out there and have fun.”
Well there it is, my afternoon with the ladies.
It won’t be a habit, I’m sure. Rolling with that caliber of woman is a little on the expensive side, so I’ll let the drooling officer-types that were there fight it out. Also, you tend to get “You don’t look so tough, I’ma gonna kick your ass” looks from every guy in the place. I’d rather not revert into primate mode and have to defend my alpha-male status to keep my prizes. I’ll just stick to my normal routes.