My Date with a Porn Star – Part II

27 August 2008

It was just after eleven on a Tuesday night – a sleeping hour for normal people, cocktail hour for restaurant people.  The Porn Star and I had just found a cab and pointed in the direction of my normal watering hole. 

 

“You really haven’t seen any of my movies? I have made almost 50 adult features” She asked for a second time and loud enough for the cab driver to readjust his rear view mirror.

 

“Adult films aren’t my thing” I said trying to be as polite as possible in my phrasing.  This was the first of many what-have-I-gotten-myself-into moments.      

 

“I am in town on a promotional tour for my new movie.  Say, can we go to a strip club?  Because of my work, I usually get everything for free if I dance for one song.”

 

“The place we’re headed is pretty fun” I non-answered.

 

Like she was rehearsing for an upcoming scene, she slid closer to me on the seat and pawed my thigh.  “You have very strong legs” she drawled in a southern lilt that reminded me of Madonna affecting her British accent. 

 

It was hard to determine through the slit of mirror, but I think the cabbie’s eyes registered jealousy… or disapproval.  I was too busy masking the growing shame in my own to make a final determination.  Thankfully we had reached the bar.

 

Porn Star displayed ballet like grace as she took my hand and alighted from the car.  A fitted mini-skirt, rather high heels, and surgically high center of gravity led me to expect that she would lean on my palm for balance; but her touch was light.  Her grace was fleeting.  As soon as she reached the sidewalk, she said – ostensibly to me, but actually to the trio of frat boys walking by us – “I really like to fuck.”

 

Satisfied that she had drawn their gaze – overkill as I am certain her breasts were sufficient to get them gawking – she walked towards the bar door.

 

“Hi.  I’m Porn Star, Adult Film Actress” she said to the bartender and anyone else within 10 yards. 

 

I was with a woman who would suck the light from the moon if she thought you were paying it too much attention.  What had once seemed like an interesting evening has become painfully embarrassing.  We could not stay here. 

 

“There’s no one here.  A great DJ is spinning at the joint down the street.” I announced.  It was the kind of place that I normally despise – too loud music, men in too tight pants, too dark, too expensive, and too hip by half – but I wouldn’t know anyone in the room.  It was perfect.

 

At the hipster hangout, it wasn’t long before Porn Star lost interest in me.  I was bled dry of attention and she needed more to keep life force going.  She kept introducing herself to anyone who passed through her tractor beam.  “Hi. I’m Porn Star, Adult Film Actress.”  I must have heard it a dozen times.

 

When she started kissing a woman on the dance floor I escaped out the door.

 

There aren’t many in this city who can begin a story with “the time I went on a date with a Porn Star.”  This particular story wasn’t worth it.


My Date with a Porn Star – Part I

25 August 2008

She walked into the bar and would have turned every man’s head except the bar was mostly empty at the time so she would have to manage with the speech altered attention of my bartender.  Dishwater blonde and rather petite save one surgically enhanced area of her body, she began the evening a bit quiet and demure.  She looked over the menu while sipping a Cosmopolitan and asked a couple of thoughtful questions about the cuisine.

 

I exited the kitchen in desperate need of espresso and had to use every bit of my General Manager nonchalance to look at her just long enough to smile a hello.  My single became a double hit of espresso and then I walked behind the bar to steal a second look fetch a lemon twist.  She was attractive but in the same way that a used BMW with lots of city miles rather than highway miles is attractive – not until you look closely will you see all of the potential problems.

 

I retuned to work; she finished her drink and slipped out the door with a promise to return for dinner later.  My bartender eventually regained his composure.

 

It was a slow night, the dinning room mostly empty 10 minutes before the kitchen closed.  This is the time when even a GM whose bonus is based on revenue doesn’t want another guest to emerge from nowhere.  I was having a working meal at the end of the bar when, true to her promise, Porn Star retuned. “May I have a Cosmo and a menu” she cooed to the bartender only slightly more animated than her first visit.

 

There was much grumbling in the kitchen when I alerted them to the presence of a new guest right before the final shut down was to happen.

 

“Refugee, are you fucking kidding me?” Nelson, the young Sous Chef who was in charge of the kitchen since the Executive Chef had long since departed said with obvious frustration knowing he had no choice in the matter.  “Nelson, I think you are out of Diet Coke.  Go pour yourself some” I suggestively encouraged.

 

Thirty seconds later Nelson returns with alacrity and commands the line cooks to get ready for one more order.

 

I checked on the two tables remaining in the dining room and returned to my now very cold hanger steak waiting for me at the bar. 

 

Fortunately for the kitchen and the rest of my staff, Porn Star only ordered an entrée.  Which the kitchen produced in world record speed as always happens when a last minute guest orders.

 

“This is soooooooo good Porn Star” sent in my direction.  “I’m very happy that you’re enjoying it” I replied and went back to the accounting papers before me.  My staff and I continued about the process of putting a restaurant to sleep for the evening.  Forty minutes elapse, all other guests had left and Porn Star is still sipping her second cocktail.  The servers were done and on their way to a bar to spend the nights earnings.  As the last member of the kitchen crew waved good night, my bartender gave me a pleading look.  He wanted to go home more than he wanted to ogle magnificently large breasts.  I closed his register while he did the final cleaning.

 

The night was done, doors locked lights extinguished in the dining room but Porn Star was still sitting at the bar.  We had engaged in light conversation to this point but I wanted to get out of the restaurant too.  She wanted another drink.  Yes, I wanted to leave, but I am also a man and therefore get distracted by bright lights and shinny things, so I made her another.  

“Take me some place fun” she asked without a hint of possible rejection in her voice.

 

She was right.


Worst Date Ever Blog Contest Updates

24 August 2008

Thank you to all of you who have submitted entries thus far.  Due to slightly piss poor planning on my part unavoidable scheduling conflicts, the final judging will not be held until Labor Day Weekend – the announcement of the winner will be the following Tuesday.  Because of that delay and the fact that we are having a blast reading all of your entries, submissions can be entered until 11:59pm Thursday, 28 August 2008.

 

Your esteemed judges are:

The Disaffected Scanner Jockey – the inspiration for this contest and a lady who has indicated a willingness to be bribed with Twinkies and foot rubs.

My Favorite Lemon – the Food Goddess

I-66 – A man who has yet to face a situation that cannot be described by a word he invents

LivitLuvit – who most assuredly can be bribed with Manolo Blahnik Gift Certificates

KassyK – a great dame if ever there was one

The Foggy Dew – a danger to preconceived notions everywhere

J of BJsWithouttheMess – who may have wrestled the title of “one of the funniest women I have never met” away from Shannon who is disqualified from that competition since we have met and shared buckets-o-booze together.

 

The Grand Prize:

When I went to Cashion’s Eat Place to purchase the $100 Gift Certificate that is the top prize in this little contest the ownership volunteered to donate the prize – an exceedingly Stand-Up gesture that is much appreciated.  If you needed another reason to visit their site and hopefully their restaurant, you have it.

 

The Contestants:

Freckled K

Building a Family

Who Invented Roses

The Agony & The Irony

Infinite Connections

Unbelievably Bad Dates

That’s Why the Lady is a Tramp

Life of Red (in two parts)

Reader Submission from Megan

Reader Submission that I that I Think was Submitted Anonymously


Random Lessons from Restaurant Life

22 August 2008

If a porn star invites you to take her for a drink, you go on the date if only to have a story that begins “So this time I went out with a Porn Star.”

 

If I can still smell your cologne after I have walked away from your table, you are 3.6 times more likely to be a bad tipper than the general population.

 

Contrary to common belief, the really pretty people don’t get the best tables – the really nice people do.

 

Couples over the age of 40 who engage in heavy PDA in restaurants are usually cheating on at least one spouse.

 

If you are meeting an on-line date for the first time, stating your date’s name as a declarative rather than a question is the first sign of success.

 

Opening with the statement “Refugee, the Mrs.’s had a really bad day so there will be some cursing involved in the evening, can we sit somewhere out of the way?” is certain to place you on my list of most favorite guests.

 

Food Critics have a psychic Bad Day Barometer and will only appear when the needle is pegged on Shittiest Day Ever.

 

Health Inspectors, Alcohol Inspectors, and Corporate Mucketymucks have the same Barometer.

 

Very few problems cannot be solved with a mostly honest answer, sincere apology, and champagne.

 

The former lesson also applies to dating.

 

I have never met a Scotch Drinking Woman I didn’t like.

 

 

No good comes from Bachelor/ette Parties.  Ever.

 

 

 

Cleaning problems in the Ladies Wash Closet is always more vile than those in the Gentleman’s.

 

Never get attached to any article of clothing worn in a restaurant.  It will eventually be ruined.

 

Treating children like small adults is much more likely to produce good behavior.

 

I would much rather hire smart people with no experience then someone with 15 years of bad habits I will eventually have to break.

 

Guests who dine later in the evening are almost always more fun.

 

Always give the dishwasher beer at the end of the night.

 

Truth is not a good justification for calling a Corporate Mucketymuck a feckless asshat.


It Is Hard To Breathe That High Up

20 August 2008

The email came as I was having a decompressing cocktail with my favorite bartender and dear friend, K.  I dropped the phone on the bar, rose from my stool and took a step beck before reading it again.  Did I just read that?  Surely I must have stammered seven “wow’s” before real words began to form.

 

“You OK” the recently non-smoking K asked.

 

“If you read what I just read, you would relapse and kick a puppy if he stood between you and a pack of Marlboro Lights.”

 

I exhaled deeply and marveled at the ability of a woman I have never met to erase all logical thoughts from my mind and make a four hour drive seem completely reasonable at the moment.  As K poured beer and mixed sundry cocktails for others, I tried to steady my addled brain to explain.  Short sentences, I reminded myself.

 

It’s nothing

It’s virtual

We’ve never met

She is an intimidatingly good writer

We don’t know each other

It’s a surreal online flirtation

A manufactured narrative

Of poetry and prose

In octagonal harmony

It started so innocently

And morphed into this

Tales of a perfect Sunday

Of coffee, and newspapers, and amazing sex

Intelligence as aphrodisiac

I’m not making sense

This makes no sense

And yet I want her

Badly

But we’ve never met

But I want that Sunday

I want every Sunday

I want that perfect first date

Long dormant things have stirred

And I have no idea what’s next


Instructions to Avoid Getting Laid

18 August 2008

“I’m more of a ‘post-feminist’ feminist” the Lightly Bible Thumping Blonde to my left explained as we watched the U.S. Men’s Beach Volleyball team getting all they could handle from the Germans.

 

She made this quizzical comment in response to her Mostly Conversationally Challenged Companion’s complaint that “If the women play in bikinis, at least the men could play shirtless.” 

 

Sometimes I go to bars seeking this type of provocative conversation, sometimes I just want to watch the game or read a newspaper or smoke a cigar, and sometimes I wouldn’t mind some company for the rest of the night.  Last night might have been a mélange of all of those desires, but mostly it was about watching the game. SBTB had made it clear, however, that all options were available.

 

“What does that mean – a ‘post-feminist’ feminist?” I asked, knowing full well that her answer might eliminate the option directly involving her for the evening.

 

“It means that I am all about equality, but I am not going to care that the women play in bikinis and the men in shorts and shirts.”

 

(Mouth, this is Central Command.  Steady.  You are not the crusader for all things righteous.  You are instructed to change subject; alter conversational trajectory and return to Ready Mode.) 

 

“Oh my God, did you catch the angle on that shot?”

 

“I just don’t understand the big deal.  Sex sells. Those women just need to relax and enjoy it.”

 

(Mouth, this is Central Command.  You are instructed to Ignore, Ignore, Ignore.  Occupy pie-hole with drink.  Response is not permitted.  Threat Level is Elevated, but Situation still manageable.)

 

“If feminists want something to be upset about, we should be upset about how Title IX paints women as victims like affirmative action does for minorities.”

 

(Mouth, this Central Command.  Situation is no longer tenable for eventual landing.  You have a green light for proportional response.  Fire at will)

 

“If you really believed in equality, you would understand that the objectification of women is patently against the Olympic ideal.  Wearing bikini’s serves no useful athletic purpose.  If skin tight and revealing clothes made you play volleyball better, then the men would be outfitted in Lycra bodysuits if it would help them win.  This is a matter of sexualization, and that ain’t equality.

 

“And I would be happy to discuss the virtues of Title IX, Victimization, Minorities, and the implied subtext of your “relax and enjoy it” comment, but I have an early morning and must get some sleep.  Ladies, have a good evening.”

 

p.s. Thanks to all of you who wandered over from DC Blogs.  I would encourage you consider entering the Worst Date Ever Blog Contest we are hosting.  Turn a bad date into free dinner and good booze – clearly a win win.


Worst Date Ever Blog Contest Updates

18 August 2008

Yes, the contest is titled Worst Date Ever Blog Contest, however, there are scores of people who have had terrible dates and don’t have a Blog.  If you are one of the countless people that enjoy reading blogs and have a story to tell, you may enter the contest by sending your story to restaurantrefugee@gmail.com as a MS Word attachment. 

 

I have also received a number of emails from people who have blogs for which a “worst date” story would be inappropriate.  Entries need not be posted on your blog.  An email with the story attached will also suffice in this circumstance.

 

Deadline for entries has been moved back to 11:59pm Thursday, 21 August 2008.


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