So without further ado…
My girlfriend, the man magnet
Linda and I had a fantastic time last weekend. We went to a house party that hosted various Las Vegas Strip musicians and vocalists who performed jazz and R&B throughout the night.
The beer was great, the music was fantastic and my companion was perfect; perhaps too perfect.
Upon arriving we were greeted by my friend Rochelle who looked surprised and asked, “Hey Mike, how’d you know about this party?”
“Well, Rochelle, you invited me. Remember?”
I couldn’t look at Linda. Linda has a billion friends and I have only six--three if you don’t count my kids and now two if you don’t count Rochelle.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “Well, have fun.”
OK, no problem, I remained calm. Linda went out back to put the beer we brought in the cooler and I surveyed the food offerings. After a short conversation with the guy who made the chicken, I looked for Linda and but had trouble spotting her. I wedged my way through a small crowd that had formed toward the backdoor – and there she was. Now get this: having her picture taken with some guy whom she met only 30 seconds prior. (The faces herein have been changed to protect the guilty.)
“You’re really beautiful,” one douche bag slurred. (I will be using “douche bag” often, so I will henceforth abbreviate to “DB.”)Um, yeah… that’s probably a pretty accurate account. Except I had a picture taken with yet another guy—I don’t know how Mike missed this one. What can I say? I make friends easily!
“This is my boyfriend,” she chimed.
He looked in my direction. “Oh? Well, she is really beautiful.”
“Yeah, I know. You see, Medusa was busy feeding her snakes so I thought I’d break with tradition and bring someone pretty.” That was met with daft stares and beer drool. Still calm.
Well, that had actually happened to us before, one night at Green Valley Ranch, so I was somewhat conditioned. I safely escorted her to the back yard and sat down. That’s when DB2 found Linda. Now this creep, who was with a date, found it necessary to speak so close to her face that I was concerned Linda may have been deprived of ambient oxygen and become asphyxiated. Linda tacitly assured me the situation was under control and I decided to get some more beer as hers was empty. Of course, when I returned he had decided that my seat, next to Linda, would give him a better vantage for discussion about his life, his women and other stuff. I asked him to move, which he did begrudgingly. I’m calm, mostly.
Wow, we're there for five minutes and I’m like the Secret Service guarding the First Lady. We finally get to enjoy the music.
After a while, I excused myself to make use of the facilities, and when I returned what did I find? Linda has danced with DB3. Yes, yet another jackal had decided to prey on poor defenseless Linda. Still calm, and even amused and flattered, I asked Linda to identify DB3 and she pointed to the backdoor. I wondered how the short bald-headed guy with a walker could muster a dance, but I decided to confront him anyway. “No, honey, I was dancing with the big black guy behind him; the saxophone player.” No longer calm--OMFG, 6’5” by 6’5”. In a sudden and unusual show of mercy I decided to spare this bloke and take the higher road (mostly because the lower road probably would have led to stitches and a splint).
This, believe it or not, is a typical date with Linda. And yes, everyone lived.
Of course, this is all in good fun, and the men in the photos were lovely guys and not at all douche-baggy. We had a fantastic time! And Mike forgot to tell you that chicks dig me, too, though that’s a topic for some other post. Whatever. We’ll just let the record show that my smile is widest when this handsome devil is next to me.
Geez... do I have to cheer up or what?
I know, all this being-in-love crap has got to be wearing thin on some of you, and right about now my readers who hate me are hating me even more, but please just be happy for me. When my book, Bastard Husband: A Love Story comes out, you’ll see I deserve it.
Photos by John Kaye, singer/songwriter. www.JohnKaye.com