Tuesday, September 08, 2009

The National Archives of Amateur Porn

Or, The Secret Service Would Prefer a Penis-Free Evening in Lafayette Park

It was the end of a long, slow night at work when she walked past my seat, and perched on a bar stool. Petite, blonde, and wearing an entirely pink* outfit, she looked simultaneously lost and totally confident. My manager asked if I had noticed the woman, whom we'll call Violet, and I said yes. She then asked how old I thought Violet was, so I said, "let me get my shift** and I'll go find out."
"Oooh, Chuckles, don't embarrass yourself," she said as I left to get my beer.

I sit down one stool away from Violet, and proceed to sip my beer and my water. I glance over a couple times, Violet catches my glances, and reciprocates. At this point in time, I can not be certain what I said to start the conversation, but I know it was going well until a tremendous fool, whom we'll call Cuban Pete, interrupted. We had been talking about faith, religion, and belief when Cuban Pete turned around and asked, "who talks about God at a bar?" Before I can say anything, Violet is handling the situation.

I am then witness to a full-throttle ego destruction as Cuban Pete tries to use lines designed to prey on a woman's insecurities*** on Violet and she retaliates with a withering display of intellectual firepower. She wrecks him so handily, and he is so utterly unaware of himself, that I just sit there and laugh at him. I know when to shut up and watch. Eventually Cuban Pete's friends show up and try to drag him away, and we duck out the back while Pete was trying to tell his friends that he was going home with Violet.

While leaving through the back exit, we run into my asshole boss who proceeds to try yelling at Violet, "Hey little girl, what the hell? Where you going? No way!" Violet walks into the downstairs entrance as I tell the Boss quite firmly that "I got this, it's under control. Go back in your office, I got this. Go back in your office!" Boss stops and stares at me, and then walks off muttering. I sit Violet down at the bar, run upstairs for my bag where I find my boss ranting about me and "the crazy teenager." I grab my bag and say, "she's no teenager. I'll see everyone tomorrow." Violet and I leave for the Big Hunt.

At the Hunt, we each have a Bell's Oberon and a great conversation. The topics range wildly, and humorously, despite a complete lack of discussion about flaky fish. If I remember correctly, we were discussing our varied education in dancing when a neighboring table asked us about the aforementioned piscine delights. Violet is classically trained in ballet, while I was classically trained in ballroom, in the same way that Animal House is a classic.

After a pleasant time on the Hunt's roof patio, we leave and I offer to walk her to her hotel. She thought it was near a park, and as we approach the address, we see the Washington Monument peeking over some rooftops. A block or so beyond her hotel is Lafayette Park and the White House, so we mosey over. Violet worries that it might be off limits after dark, but three bicycle cops say otherwise. We sit down in the dewy grass near the fountains and continue chatting.

At this point in the evening, I am thinking two things: holy shit, this woman is attractive both mentally and physically, and I doubt we're going to make out with all of these cops walking around. Ninety seconds later, the latter was proven wrong when Violet pushed me onto my back and leapt on top of me. I would proceed with details except that there are certain things that I would prefer to keep to myself, specifically the way her skin smelled (lovely), the way her blonde hair caught the light of the fountains (beautifully), and the way she felt in my arms (wonderful). After that, all I could think about was whether an FOI request would get me the footage from the security cameras because no one will ever believe this happened.

After an unknown period of time, subject to the L.L. Cool J Theory of Relativity,**** a police officer crept up to the far side of the fountain in his SUV and then sauntered over to us. Violet slid off me, and we said good evening to the young officer. "Just checking in folks, thought I saw, uh, something that looked like, um, oral going on, and that's, uh, illegal, but everything is all put away, so we're okay." Nothing of the sort was going on, I'm a gentleman and Violet is not that kind of lady, but he's got a job to do and it was just dark enough to leave some doubt. I am not sure who felt more awkward, but I was ready to jump up and demand a high-five.

Violet and I ask the cop about the rules on make-outs in the park. Apparently, the rules about nudity in the District are far more lax than I had previously thought. As long as the genitals are clothed, anything goes! No acts deemed lewd are permitted however, hence the diligent officer's investigation of any possible intimate internship.

After a hilariously awkward conversation about catching people fucking in the park not twenty minutes prior and other nights of streakers at the Lincoln Memorial, the officer left saying, "good night. And good luck, dude! But, uh, not here, please." Violet undid several more buttons on her shirt now that we understood the rules and I am now Agnostic, because I was ready to proselytize for whichever deity smiled upon me at that moment. I won't divulge more details because incoming links from Filthbot may be funny, but the comments that result are sorta grody. I will say that we were chaste, and I will also say that as good a time was had as could be had without requiring a lawyer. I walked Violet to her hotel, she kissed me goodnight, and I walked home wishing I could high-five all my buddies. Or even the men I passed on the street. The night's events are the top of the list of All Time Best-Ever Events Without Nudity, The Genius Edition, and even pretty high on the Nudity Required version of the list.

Unfortunately, the rest of Saturday was an unending string of missed connections and miscommunications. I had a small voice in my head saying that I would never hear from Violet again, and sent her an poorly-worded email about meeting up on Saturday night. When I wrote the email, I expected it to bounce or never receive a response. It was far more blase than I felt. Over the course of the evening, the combination of working in a basement and missing calls and messages resulted in an enormous level of frustration in both Violet and I. I thought she knew I was working, and she thought I was playing it cool. If she could have seen me obsessively checking my messages every twenty minutes and rebooting my phone to double check that it was actually downloading messages, she would know that I was being anything but cool. At one point, I missed her call by three minutes. The people smoking on the stoop all jumped when I shouted in dismay.

The string of emails that followed on Sunday and into the night were mixed in tone. Like so many emails, if she was smiling when she wrote them Violet is hilarious. If she was frowning, then I had to wonder why she was bothering. Most women I piss off so thoroughly simply stop communicating with me. Fortunately, I seem to have convinced her that I am not a giant jerkfaced asshole, and she seems amenable to giving me another chance the next time she is in town.

I hope the weather is still warm because I hear the Jefferson Memorial is beautiful by night.

* Or blue. Definitely a pastel to my cursed eyes. Probably both pink and blue.
** Victory Prima Pils.
*** This technique had probably worked well with the Bachelorette party he and his pals had been hitting on, but Cuban Pete was too drunk to notice that he had just gotten himself unlaid by starting this.
**** As related in Deep Blue Sea, "Get your hands on a hot pan, and a second can last an hour. Get your hands on a hot woman, and a night can disappear in a second."

13 comments:

Anonymous said...

Next time you won't be so lucky, Chucky! Anytime you want to talk about the philosophy of me beating your ass, I'll be glad to host that seminar!

-Cuban Pete

Chuckles said...

Oddly enough, Cuban Pete's real name is the same as yours, "Tom."

Anonymous said...

Nothing to see here, move along.

-DC Park Police officer, Lafayette Park Sector

Old Shatter Hands said...

You know if you end up dating her, you're going to have erase this post and any evidence of it. then hunt down and eliminate those that have read it.

-the real Tom.

Chuckles said...

I'll hire your Mont'ka Hunter Cadre, Old Shatter Hands, as long as you can stand to work for a Gue'la Warmaster.

Trebuchet said...

1: "Unlaid" is a term I will commence to steal and use freely starting now. Thank you!

2: "As long as the genitals are clothed, anything goes" sounds like a Sarah Palin slogan for "safe" teenage sex.

Awesome, awesome post. Nice to read you again.

zombie rotten mcdonald said...

Jefferson Mem probably even allows exposed genitalia.

At least it should, and if you're with a lovely woman, isn't that enough?

Chuckles said...

The nice thing about the Jefferson Memorial is its proximity to the FDR Memorial. The FDRM (haha, Fuck DRM!) has lots of nooks and crannies and low-hanging cherry trees.

Chuckles said...

Cuban Pete's outfit: one of those fancy, expensive black t-shirts with a glitter logo of a horse or dragon and the pocket stylishly ripped off and then expensive jeans. I was wearing a worn black collared shirt, with almost as much grey wear showing as black, and I left with the lady. Geeks everywhere should have given me a standing fucking ovation.

zombie rotten mcdonald said...

dude, it's not the shirt, it's the class of the flesh it encloses.


I LOVED the FDR mem, when we were there. Lighting was incomplete, but the spatial experience was superb. we were there at twilight, best time I think.

WW2 Mem, kind of over-wrought.

Vietnam, sublime. as always.

Korea, some good some bad, appeared to be designed by committee.

Jefferson and Lincoln, classic, but in a New Century, I support new forms of memorial. I am thinking mine will likely be a busted urinal in Landmark lanes...

mdh said...

high five

Chuckles said...

high five, indeed.

The WW2 memorial sucks and looks like it was designed by all the immigrant memorial designers from the Old Soviet Union. A 60-years too late reminder of "hey! Remember that last war that wasn't exactly, entirely Imperialist that we won?"

Free Porn said...

Hold on! you sip beer and water? where I come from that is a crime.