So I entered a local writing competition a while ago, with the following non-fiction story. It was anonymously peer judged: I read 10 stories and 10 people read mine. Each reader ranked my story from 10 (the best they read) to 1 (ridiculously horrible). Those stories returned with the most 7, 8, 9 or 10 ratings were published.
Now, I entered this same competition last year. My story was not published then either, because, as eight of the 10 peers wrote, even though it was well written, it was too graphic.
BULLSHIT!
Well, okay, so that story had a small sex scene in it. So this year, I entered “I Smell Like Aftershave & Sweat” which has NO sex scene. And guess what?
“Too graphic,” wrote one person. “Entertaining for women, but… I’m a guy,” wrote another. “I’m so sorry for the low rating,” wrote a third, “but I’m just really uncomfortable with this. You write okay, but I could barely finish reading this.”
Unbelievable. My peers suck. So this piece didn’t get published either, but guess what, competition organizers? I have my own resources for publishing! Hello blog post!
And, I’d just like to say to my “peers”: What’s up Paonia people? You can get down and dirty with politics but not sex? What’s up with that?
Before you read my experience, if you haven’t read my post from the last time I talked about a similar issue, you should. ‘Cause that was one of my favorite posts.
***
I Smell Like Aftershave & Sweat
Nothing says “welcome to the company” like going to a Men of Las Vegas-Chippendale’s show with your new coworkers. There’s nothing quite like bobbing male genitalia to bond over, you know?
The first lapse of judgment: Asking my mother to baby-sit my three-year-old. “I have a meeting to cover for work,” I tell her.
“Of course we’ll watch her! Go do good work,” my mother replies. I am, at times, a horrible daughter. But what am I supposed to tell her? The truth? That while my husband is out of town I am going drinking and ogling naked dancing boys? Yeah right.
As I drive to Hotchkiss from Delta, my knees grow increasingly sweaty. Not just the backs of my knees—that area sweats all the time when I’m nervous. But tonight, however, the fronts of my knees are sweaty. And my elbows. And my scalp is itchy. And I am breathing kind of shallowly. Color me nervous.
“Good girls” just don’t go watch strippers, you know? Holy hell. What happens if someone from my church congregation sees me? Or if my mother-in-law drives by? Good grief. Just thinking of her knowing I am at a Chippendale’s show while her son is out of town is enough to make me itch. My knees and elbows are slick with nervousness.
The second lapse of judgment: Walking into the West Elk Inn stone cold sober. Having lived, graduated from and worked in the North Fork for a number of years, it should not surprise me how many of the people inside that I know. Yet it does. I had hoped that since this event was on a weeknight, and since it was in Hotchkiss, not many people would be here. The last thing I need is witnesses, for crying out loud. Jesus, I pray, please don’t let tonight ruin my chances of running for county commissioner one day.
The problem is, I acknowledge to myself while hiding at a table in the darkest corner of the bar, is that I am trying to mesh the idea of respectability with the idea of a woman who pays to see men undress. This idea is so hard to formulate that it is completely necessary for me to start drinking immediately.
9:21 p.m.
Random woman at the table to me: Hey, fold your dollar bills in half and then in half again.
Me: Why?
Her: So the guys don’t get paper cuts.
After a few moments of mad folding by the women sitting around me, I realize I am sitting at the only table in the room that is covered in twice-folded dollar bills. There is well over seventy-five folded bills on the table, all destined for G-strings.
9:23 p.m.
Text message to friend who punked out on me: Come rescue me please.
She replies: Can’t. Do you know anyone there?
Me: Almost everyone except one lady in her 60s drinking water. She’s wearing a floral ankle-length skirt and pearls. She looks uncomfortable, too.
Friend texts back: Maybe her thong is riding up?
Me: Cripes. My knees are so hot.
Friend says: Send pics please!
Me: Of my knees??
9:36 p.m.
The show begins — six minutes late — with a very attractive young guy making crude jokes. He’s at the hotel down the road, he says. In room 69. Give me a break, I think. That joke is never funny. Especially in a hotel room.
He turns on the music. Every woman in the room tenses, expecting some down and dirty bump-and-grind music to begin playing. Instead, what comes blaring out of the speakers is Lone Star. Lone-flipping-Star, soulfully singing “Amazed.” Yes. “Amazed.” One of the cheesiest, sappiest damn songs ever recorded.
I crack. Frustrated and still embarrassed and now goaded beyond respectability, I yell, “Are you freaking KIDDING me? This? THIS is your music choice? I want my 10 bucks back.”
The very hot young man gives me a brief glare which says, “What we have here is a sober girl with only two folded dollar bills in front of her. She’s gonna be a tough nut to crack.” (My sobriety helps me to easily decode his scowl.)
It was this moment that I realize I am far too Republican for this crowd. And I’m a Democrat. So I start taking shots: Tequila Rose, the drink of choice for every Chippendale’s attendee.
9:37 p.m.
Text from friend: It has begun, girlfriend! You are in for a ride!
Me: Do I want a ride?
Friend: Depends. Is it two guys from Whitewater trying to make some money?
Me: No, they said one guy is from Costa Rica and another is from Italy.
Friend: You don’t believe that, right? You should probably stop drinking now.
Me: I can’t stop drinking. They’re lip-synching and grinding to “Amazed.”
Friend: Jesus.
Me: I know.
9:40 p.m.
One of my co-workers, who downed an entire bottle of Jagermeister on the drive up here, licks my shoulder. I remember her telling me she really shouldn’t drink. I thought she was being funny. She wasn’t. She apparently licks people when she drinks.
Another co-worker, who is going through a divorce and earlier confided that it has “been a while” for her, is moved beyond patience. She stands up and screams, “Enough already! Take it off! TAKE IT ALL OFF! WE PAID FOR IT!” She is much louder than the thumping music. The guy mouthing, “Baby I’m amazed by you” is not fazed. He must get that a lot.
My God. I slither further down in my chair. Order another beer. Wipe off my shoulder.
All I can think is how awkward it’s going to be at work from now on. I go to the bar, take another shot.
9:50 p.m.
A collection of thoughts I had while watching these men take off their clothes and dry hump 30 drunken women:
I wonder what these men wanted to be when they grew up? Surely not this? And what do they tell their mothers they do for work?
Really? You’re seriously going to pull out a sailor’s suit? Does that work? Oh… I see. Yes, the sailor’s suit works. I need another beer. Also more Tequila Rose.
Holy crap. I haven’t seen this girl since high school. Huh. Never thought this was how we’d catch up. She looks good. Well, she looks flushed. That’s like her third private dance.
Hmm… I like the leopard print undies. Bet those are silky. Hold on. Oh my God. That’s not real. It can’t be. He has enhanced it somehow. But wait… look how it bounces. I don’t know, is it real? That is a mystery.
Well, these boys are very nice. Yes they are. And I’ve forgotten how delicious Tequila Rose really is. Yes, yes I would like a dance. But I’ll wait until Blaine the Cowboy comes out.
11:12 p.m.
The long-awaited Blaine comes out. Long-lost high school chum and I pay the extra five bucks for the “hot seat.” We sit in hardback chairs with a spotlight trained on us. Three other women flank us. We all watch in varying degrees of arousal (long lost high school chum) and/or drunken embarrassment (me) while Blaine does his hip shimmy/pelvic thrust moves, which, really, are quite amazing. So athletic. Like a dance. Like a beautiful Calvin Klein barely-covered muscle-y dance.
One by one, the other women get their $5 worth. I am the last. Blaine pulls up two chairs right next to mine. He stands on the chairs and straddles my, um, face. He begins gyrating his hips, narrowly missing my face. Sweet, nearly-naked man. I had no idea a human body could be that hard. Oily. Rippled. Warm.
So. Worth. Five. Dollars.
As he climbs off me, he leans down and whispers, “Thank you sweetheart,” and plucks the five dollar bill from my hands.
I feel kind of used.
My money gone, my Tequila Rose drunk, I gather my co-workers and leave for home. None of us talk on the way home.
12:14 a.m.
When I get home, I continue the trend and make yet one more lapse in judgment when I go on Facebook and request the city manager of Delta as a friend. I also request Long Lost High School Chum.
1:02: a.m.
Drifting off to sleep I think, Crap. I have to get up in five hours and take my three-year-old to gymnastics. Where were you on that one, Tequila Rose? And… I hope my mom and my pastor never find out about this. I don’t think they’d understand. And… I wonder if those guys really are staying at the Hotchkiss Inn. Does that place even have a room number 69?
I roll over in bed and catch a scent on my hands from when I raked my nails down a stripper’s oily back. I smell like Blaine. Like aftershave, sweat and debauchery. I repeat: So. Worth. Five. Dollars.
But now I’m tired and I’m kind of over Blaine. The honeymoon period has worn off. My head hurts, my nails stink and I’m beginning to remember why I stopped drinking Tequila Rose. The dirty guilt I felt lying to my mom is back with a vengeance. And what the hell am I going to tell my hubby when he gets home? God help me if my mother-in-law finds out where I’ve been. Oy.
*
Several days later, I have not heard back from the Delta city manager as per my Facebook friend request. I hope this refusal of Facebook friendship isn’t indicative of my future political career in this county.
Note to self: Tequila may be an effective antidote to embarrassment, but is not effective against annoyed husbands, city managers or mothers.
I know this will shock you all, but NONE of the men on this poster came to Hotchkiss. We definitely got the second string strippers. Also, you know what really strikes me about this poster? All the punctuation mistakes.
7—I Smell Like Aftershave & Sweat
