"My name is Jodie!! What's yours?? Let's play!!"
Remember how easy it was at eight to make friends on the playground? The absolute abandon, unburdened by the fear of rejection and long walk back. Wish I had the nerve as a grown up lady.
Saturday night and margaritas downtown at The Rio Grande. "The Rio" boasts the absofreakinlutely best and most lethal margaritas in town, the real deal, none of the antifreeze-green-colored-slim but loads of top-shelf tequila, fresh lime and salt. The secret to the concoction (learned via the sister of a friend who worked for years as a Rio bar keep) is a splash of apple juice and Everclear. Yep, Everclear, the stuff of freshman year college dorm, jungle juice and Jell-o shots and making out with a random boy, usually in a shower stall on the men’s floor. The Rio limits consumption to three maximum and, oddly enough, calls last call at 11 p.m., allowing for some time to sober up and get your ass home by day break. I recommend them highly. But I digress.
I was invited along by a friend to celebrate the birthday of a friend. By 9 p.m., the place was beyond packed, humming with activity and energy and men. Loads and loads of cute men in packs. It's a lovely thing to see and appreciate so much freshly scrubbed, crisply ironed and lower-downtown hip of the male species. It's then I spot a glimpse of tall, dark hair and dark eyes (yes, I get it, I have a type) out of the corner of my eye. John Cusack and Javier Bardem morphed into one beautiful man. He stood for a bit, awaiting a booth for he and his male friend to commandeer, casually sipping a light green beauty, licking the rim on occasion. I made eye contact, flashed a shy but dazzling smile before turning away, stared a little longer than appropriate. He stared back, often a little longer than appropriate.
The handsome pair eventually found an open booth directly behind my party. In true flirt fashion, I swiveled my stool fully around, crossed and pointed legs towards them like the needle of a compass even though doing so somewhat clogged the path to the bathroom; I nearly hooked the testicles of several men with my very pointy red shoe. So where's my opening? How do I get in there? Do I hop from my stool, sidle up and introduce myself? Start with a lame opener - “Excuse me, does my tongue taste funny to you?" Ask for a pen? Wait for his approach? But I froze. He left and I never said hello. I never said a word.
It was all so simple in the days of Keds screeching on hot pavement and introduction based purely on the fun factor, looking for someone to play, run around and get breathless with.
Then again, maybe he was gay.