On any given workday, I pass by two of my old haunts at least four times.
The Geyer Springs El Chico and the Chico Road Electric Cowboy.
Before you start getting any bright ideas about my love of Tex-Mex cuisine, understand that Steve - my overqualified and underachieving friend with three college degrees and about a gazillion dollars in stocks and bonds - wasted his free time as a bartender there.
Mainly for the free booze and the bar sluts.
Yes, there are bar sluts at ANY bar, even El Chico.
Every Friday night, and most Saturdays and Sundays, we would journey to El Chico to partake of free appetizers, free dinners, free desserts and copious amounts of free alcohol, not to mention the enlightening conversation of Steve and his bar mates.
I say free. But, of course, it wasn’t.
Because when you have friends like that - who hook you up to no end - and you know that both them and their friends behind the counter live off the tips . . . okay, so not so much Steve as his friends . . . you tip well.
And by well, I mean that I standardly left $50.
On more than one occasion, thanks to drunkenness or the extreme cuteness of one particular bartender, I left a tip of $100 or more.
So, actually, it would have probably been cheaper just to pay for the food and drinks.
Or . . Maybe not.
This should not give you a grand notion of my personality.
I’m not the best person around, I assure you.
You should have no noble ideas of my character.
Yes, I tipped well, but I also did bad bad things at that bar.
In fact . . . .
One occasion in particular springs to mind.
I was dating one of the Jeffs.
I say one of the Jeffs because I dated SEVERAL guys named Jeff.
People, don’t name your kid Jeff. There are far too many Jeffs in the world already.
And I’ve dated half of them.
But this Jeff happens to be one of the few men I slept with.
And by slept, I mean didn’t get one wink of rest.
Well, Jeff and I had been fighting a lot lately and while make-up sex was spectacular, I was getting sick of the lead-in.
So we decided to take a night away from each other.
I went with *Mary and some of the guys to meet Steve at El Chico with plans to journey to Electric Cowboy when the bar closed at 12:00 (this is what we had always done).
Well, lo and behold, Jeff and two of his clients had decided to eat at El Chico . . . in the bar.
Ummm, yes, I think he was checking up on me.
A - because he didn’t trust my guy friends.
B - because he told me later that he went there with the intentions of checking up on me.
Well, though I should have been peeved, I was kind of intoxicated with the thought of him being protective of lil’ ole me.
Yes, I know, I’m a freak.
So we both pretended to ignore each other throughout appetizers and the meal.
However, when dessert came around, apparently neither of us was willing to ignore one another anymore.
A hand grazed my spaghetti strapped shoulder and a voice said semi-loudly, "Hey, I need you to come out to the truck with me and help me find these estimates. You’re the one who ‘organized’ the truck and now I can’t find a damn thing out there."
Other than the me organizing his truck thing, that was all a big fat lie.
He knew where everything was.
I knew where this was going, but I wanted it, too.
Yes, I know I’m a freak, but not the same kind of freak that I was in the last paragraph.
Anyway . . .
So my friends hear this lame excuse and take it at face value.
Because they’re trashed on Vodka and Tequila.
And I have a reduced gag reflex because of Tequila . . hmmm . .
So to the parking lot we go.
And into the backseat of his well-tinted truck.
And my gag reflex is noticeably absent.
And . . . several minutes later . . we return to the bar.
I don’t even think my friends remembered I had left.
But his clients were aware of the time discrepency, and being that they were young and easily impressed, quickly signed a contract with him.
Men are so easy.
The least fond memory of the club can be found HERE.
But one of the best memories I have of the place also involves Jeff # . .. Umm . . was he 3 or 4?
Jeff and I had called it quits at least a month earlier.
The reasons are and were a bit unclear.
I think it just had a lot to do with differences in choices and lifestyles.
I expected him to be more mature at his age and he expected me to be less.
Less mature, less demanding and less . . well, less everything else I was at that age.
But just because a relationship is on the rocks doesn’t mean the sex isn’t still outstanding.
And I was at the club with my friends, dancing up a storm and pretending I didn’t see Jeff #something leaning against the bar with his running buddy and watching my every move.
Until I couldn’t pretend anymore, because he was directly behind me grinding into my back as Jason was grinding into my front.
Jason leaned in and said "I see a bride-to-be who needs one last fling before committing her life away, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t stick around for what could turn into a menage-a-trois."
Not begrudging Jason his man-whore ways, I searched for another out.
I grabbed *Mary and started dancing with her - very close.
A ploy we had perfected in South Padre during Spring Break.
Sometimes if the guy thinks one of you is a dyke, they walk away before one of you shows the man side of you and beats his behind.
However, Jeff knew full well what I was doing.
So he kept on.
Time for another tactic.
"Hey, Jeff, how bout you dance with *Mary while I run to the bathroom. Kay? Kay."
Only the bathroom turned out to be the bar on the other side of the room with my bouncer friend Larry keeping me company.
That worked for about 20 minutes.
Until Jeff’s running buddy saw me and immediately reported to him that I was canoodling with an unknown.
Unknown to Travis (running buddy), but Jeff was fully aware that Larry, while attractive and fun, was engaged to one of the waitresses - and a good friend of mine.
Jeff looped his arms around me from behind and said:
"Why are you fighting this, babe, you know you’re coming home with me."
Ugh . . .
I hated it when he was right.
Thank God I rode into town with *Mary that night, allowing me a clear mind about leaving my vehicle in a shady area.
I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations.
I am beyond proud to say that I haven’t set foot in either establishment in 3 years.
Well, that’s kind of a lie.
2 years ago, I graced Electric Cowboy with my presence for *Mary’s bachelorette party.
But forced presence at an engagement soiree does not count as elective assent to attend a club.
So . . there’s a peak at my less than graceful past that keeps haunting my present with daily reminders.