Last Call

Monica straightens my hair as I fix Claire’s left eyelashes which have come unglued on the inner corner and now look more like a tarantula creeping along her eyelid than Bridgette Bardo eyes. “Your bra’s showing” I tell Claire as she leans towards me and the glue. “It’s meant to”, she replies tugging down her shirt so that the pink lacey cups are no longer just peeking out of her top but rather brazenly staring. “Stop moving or these will be all crooked again” I warn her. “My lashes or my boobs” she asks half seriously. “You stop moving too or I might burn your ear” Monica adds from behind me on the couch. “Someone must be talking about me” I say and toss a cheeto down Claire’s cleavage. She laughs and fishes around in her shirt, trying to retrieve the snack without rubbing cheese crumbs all over. “Settle down ladies, I’m almost done” Monica says. We raise our glasses of cheap rose and toast to the evening and to our beauty.
This is the start of a fairly typical Friday night out for us. Drinks and snacks at Monica’s while we primp and fuss followed by a visit to one of the local nightclubs. Usually we hit Barstow’s because Claire used to date the bouncer so we never have to wait in line or pay cover but sometimes it will be Elixir’s or The Temple or even Baltimore if we’re feeling really wild. Tonight we’re going to Puss n’ Boots despite the vulgar name because some guy Claire’s been lusting after said he might be there. Might. If all goes well, the night will be filled with dancing, free drinks and some groping in a poorly lit corner. If the night goes poorly we might have to buy our own drinks and/or one of us will end up crying or puking or crying and puking in the bathroom. It’s happened to all of us. But I love my girls.
Monica downs the last of her glass of rose. “Let’s do a shot of Jager before we go” she suggests. Claire whoots in agreement and so the shot glasses are dragged out from the cupboard and plunked down on the cold, marble coffee table. My stomach rumbles. The hummus is not agreeing with me. I hate jager. It reminds me of herbal medicine, but shots are our armor and need to be shared.
Soon we are in an overheated taxi. We giggle incessantly. Claire’s yipping laugh reminds me of a Pomeranian with a collapsed trachea. I roll down the window. The cool air feels good and the lights whizzing by remind me of a bad 80s music video. The cab driver is kind. He humours us with corny jokes. We laugh at the right moments, which are marked by a pause, but the individual words are lost in the hum of alcohol and the smell of Body Shop perfume.
The cab stops rather abruptly and I feel the hummus and Jager rise in my throat but thankfully they descend. We all fumble in our purses for change, each coming up with a $20. “It’s ok, I’ll pay”, Monica says, “you guys can buy me shots at the bar”. She hands the crumpled bill over the seat, waving her hand to indicate that the cabby can keep the change.
Claire gets out first and somehow the heel of her boot gets caught and the seatbelt and she pitches forward onto the damp cement. Her cell bounces out of her pocket and lands in a puddle. Her laugh changes from Pomeranian to Hyena. “Shit” she giggles. I try to help her up but from the back of the cab the angle is all wrong and she simply hangs from my arm like a stray clump of cat fur so she lets go of me and, still cackling, pushes herself up while I grab her cell and wipe it on my jacket. The display still glows coolly. I hand it back to Claire, who is now standing unsteadily by the cab and Monica and I clamber out, incident free,
The line is about half a block long, a solid mix of male and female. Both sexes are mostly wearing jeans though the females’ are decidedly tighter than the males. We push right up to the front. The girls scowl at us. A redhead in a pink top flicks cigarette ashes at as and mutters “bitches” under her breath but a group of athletic guys in front of her wordlessly open up their circle and let us in. We smile at them, exchange a few pleasantries and coo but not for long because the bouncer quickly spots us and ushers us in past the tacky velvet rope and into darkness of the coat check area. None of us care enough about our coats to spend money on coat check, and besides Monica thinks she recognizes the coat check girl, who is glaring at us with enough intensity to pop corn, as a girl whose boyfriend she had been shamelessly flirting with a few nights ago, so we sashay past the stand and into the pulsating beat of the main room.
We pile our jackets on an unoccupied stool in the corner. Suddenly the frantic rhythms of Sir Mix-a-lot’s Baby’s Got back fill the air and Claire screeches in my ear, “I love this song”. She grabs me by the wrist and tries to drag me onto the dance floor. “Shots fist” I remind her, grabbing Monica with my free hand. Monica smiles. Hand in hand we stroll over to the bar where a Mr. Clean looking type is pouring Goldshlager into shot glasses. With a little wriggling we manage to squeeze past the circle of cougars that has gathered to the right. Two older men, still in their day time suits, grin at us and gesture to the empty bar stools next to them. Claire bats her eyelashes and stands on the rung of one of one of the stools, precariously balancing on her tip toes and magically our shots are purchased for us. We cheers with the gentlemen but only stick around long enough to lick the salt off our wrists.
The dance floor is a better place to meet guys. Their hunter instinct kicks in when they see moving prey. So we give them a full show, getting as low as we possibly can, caressing each other, bumping and grinding. Slowly but surely, a group of guys move in. At first they are timid, looking awkwardly at each other, shuffling their feet and bobbing their heads, but we flash encouraging smiles at them and they eventually move closer until their hands find the curve of our backs and sweaty flesh meets sweaty flesh.
I can’t see the guy behind me but he has nice arms and he smells like a healthy mix of clean sweat and nutmeg or cloves. He must be a bit short though because when I lean back against him his nose doesn’t even come to the top of my head and all I can see is a halo of wavy brown hair.
The guy behind Monica is really cute in a wholesome Abercrombie and Fitch kind of way. Personally I like them a bit sicklier looking, as if they had spent hours pouring over dusty books in a library or playing chords on their acoustic guitar, rather than robust and tanned from weekends surfing in Cali, but I’m alone in that respect. Abercrombie spins Monica round and she screams and claps a whirl of soft pink silky shirt and long dark brown hair. When she finally stops spinning Abercrombie tilts Monica back, one hand on her neck and one creeping towards the creamy freckled skin of her breasts, and kisses her. She leans against him, maybe dizzy from the spin or maybe just wanting to feel his solidity behind her, and accepts the kiss. When I see tongue emerging, mollusk like, I decide it’s time to give them some privacy. “Let’s go”, I whisper to the form behind me. He puts his hand on my ass and guides me to a clear section on the dance floor.
He tries to stay behind me but I want to see his face so I turn. Even in the darkness of the bar I can see that he has beautiful green eyes flecked with gold and dimples I could almost sleep in. Now that I’m facing him, he attempts to start a conversation. We yell at each other over the pounding sounds of The Killers.
-What do you do?
-I’m still in school.
-Studying?
-To be a teacher. You?
-Financial analyst. Do you know what that is?
Does he think I’m stupid? I nod.
-What’s your name?
-Ben. You?
-Satya
-Katya?
-No, Satya.
-Oh, Anna.
Why did my parents have to pick such a difficult name?
-Never mind.
-No, tell me again. I want to get it right so I can yell it later tonight when I’m fucking you.
I turn to leave but my path is blocked some drunken frat boys flailing. Ben grabs me by the wrist and pulls me back towards him.
-Don’t be angry at my honesty.
I try to think of a clever reply. I consider slapping him in a dramatic scene but before I can act I open my mouth and a stream of hummus, rose, Jager and Tequila pours out onto his gleaming white sneakers.