We were very thirsty and with files, pamphlets and baby booties in tow, we made our way from the office to Hôtel de la Montagne in record time.
On the way M texts her friend: With a 48-pack of new born diapers under each of our arms the men will be all over us!
He responds: Especially the fetish guys!
Something feels strange when we walk in and most of the tables have reserved signs on them. Some of them are occupied by college girls,others by women in their 50′s with home-job highlights, visibly bleached mustaches and bright orange lipstick. At the center table sits a well groomed man in his 60′s. He is wearing a nice suit and checks his expensive watch between newspaper paragraphs.
M: Where are all the prostitutes?
J walks up and informs us that we are standing smack dab in the middle of a Plenty of Fish meet-up.
I scan the room and make a note to come back later for
blog content observation.
We find a corner booth right next to the stage and pile our diapers up on the back rest.
Martinis and Whiskey Sours are ordered promptly and to our delight delivered in doubles. Yes. That’s right. I order a martini and two arrive for the price of one. Oh Happy Hour, how I’ve missed you.
I am not entirely clear on how it happened but somewhere between the first and 3rd set of cocktail twins the room filled up, the dynamic at the table changed and the band started playing.
I realized when I went to the washroom and needed (just a little) support from the wall of the toilet stall that maybe I had
had enough been sitting down too long.
I guess M had had enough sitting also because when I got back from the washroom she was on the dance floor with her legs up over her ears, waving her arms wildly and screaming something about Africa.
A man roughly the age of my grandfather invited me to dance with him and had steps so quick and moves so smooth I could barely keep up with him. My favorite was his seductive glare.
My next partner was 7 feet tall, had skin the color of ebony and was wearing a polyester suit. He asked me where I learned to dance and I said I hadn’t yet but he was welcome to teach me. He whispered stuff I didn’t understand in my ear and pressed himself against my thigh. I hoped he would stop spinning me soon because my eyeballs were swimming in gin.
My third was a guy from Ecuador who told me I was the most beautiful woman on the dance floor. I told him he was a liar and that he just like me because I was wearing the same outfit as the singer of the band. We argued about it until I noticed the ladies with fried hair and lipstick on their teeth dancing right next to us.
M, MM, W and I danced a few rounds to some terrible disco and staggered back to the table where J and I pretended to make-out to avoid further dance invitations from grandpa and some other guy I couldn’t see through her hair.
At some point somebody had the good sense to put an end to all of this and declared Happy Hour over.
I crawled over to my boyfriend’s house where I may or may not have violated him (this is where things get a little fuzzy).
And by a little fuzzy I mean that my only clear memories after walking into his flat are crying at him to help me get out of my clothes, whining at him because I was hungry, chewing on a veggie sausage and begging him to drag his TV into the bedroom. He’s such a good sport. I feel like there may have been a shower in all of this but I honestly can’t be sure. I may have made that up.
I’ll be spending the better part of this day in recovery or commencing my training… for next Happy Hour.