Word to Joel Goodsen

[Note: names have been changed to protect the sexy.]

OK, here's a little story that must be told. I'd post it on PK if my girl and my folks didn't read the site:

I wasn't joking about the Canadian Gigalo (in Bundang!!) part in my last post. A few weeks ago, I went out with a couple of my - single - male co-workers. We had a bunch of drinks at Wolverine in Saskatchewan, and when they started complaining about the lack of eye candy, I suggested we head to Seohyeon.

(Don't fret, Bill; aside from one moment of bad judgement, The Promised Land is still sacred; and I wiped the memory of the sole dude whom I took there, Men in Black style.)

Naturally, I suggested Pluto (aka The Planet), but they were all rah-rah, "that place sucks," and I was like "whatevs," so I gave them two choices: Neptune, which is basically Pluto minus foreigners, a pool table, moons, and Costco cheese pizza, or, Venus, a place where I'd been only once but recalled that they employed a strikingly attractive bartender. (And you know I'm all for that.)

Since Venus was closest, that's where we went. The cute barmaid wasn't there, but a girl of equal or greater measure was. I recall she had a very unique nose. And, it was brought to my attention, big tits.

So we're there, I coax everyone into drinking Jack (K-Hot is you with me!?), and merriment was plentiful despite the fact that the place was darker than Don Cheadle and full of old men.

I should have put two and two together, but sometimes I'm oblivious like that (K-Hot knows re: my Samsung Plaza human pinball impersonation*). When girly girl called me at 2 and I told her where I was, she was perceptibly miffed.

See, the owner of Venus is a madam, and not in the French sense. Name Withheld apparently explained this to me sometime last year, but I hope I can be forgiven for not putting it at the top of my TO REMEMBER list back then.

As it was - apparently - explained to me, the Venus ajumma (who may be 45+ years old, but sexy nonetheless) owns an upscale dabang adjacent to her "legit" joint. Older dudes go to Venus, get hooked up, then head to Saturn Cafe to "drink coffee."

Anyway, after a few drinks there, the ajumma shows up, rolls up, and tells us fine gentlemen that if we require anything...anything at all...to simply ask. Me being the amiable bastard that I am, I try to charm this semi-wilted flower. What can I say, I like playing with fire (but not so much as to get burnt).

So we talk for a few minutes, she asks my name, I tell her; I ask hers, she tells me, I kiss her hand and say "enchante," making a film reference I still can't grasp, my mates burst out laughing, and I give them an admonishing look, because, really, all I wanted to do was give this middle-aged woman a unique change of pace from the manifold old dudes who likely do the same thing. Truthfully, and shoot me if I was wrong in doing so, I wanted to make her wet.

Denz is smiling.

I'm all about pleasing the ladies, after all. I'm a giver.

Fast forward to last Wednesday. I'm on vaction, bored as hell because I want to revel and no one will partake in revelry with me. I understand - if someone on vacation asked me to go out drinking and I had to work the next day, I'd decline like stay the fuck off my lawn, frat boy.

Luckily, it didn't take the boys at work much convincing. I'm beginning to get a devil-on-your-shoulder complex. Really, I am.

Lather, rinse, repeat: Wolverine in Saskatchewan, horny men, off to Venus.

We showed up at 2 and the place was empty. I think the barmaid was in the back sleeping on a bed of milk crates. You-made-me-come-here-I-make-you-drink-here style, whisky, that silk bird, flew around the coop a few times. Then, in our darkest hour...

The ajumma shows up, pudgy prostitute in tow. The ajumma tried to solicit her wares, but, to paraphrase Redman, I wasn't havin' that, and neither was my man to the right. And my man to the righter was passed out, leaning facedown on the bar. May have been my fault.

___

Sometimes things happen over which I pretend to have no control**. This, Constant Retard, was one of those times.

I fear I may become addicted to flirting with older women. When I'm womanly woman's age, picture me rollin': Dial 1-900-LADIESINTHEIR80S***.

Hold up; I just stepped into the Twilight Zone. This isn't a PK post (or is it?). Back to the straight and narrow.

Choose your own adventure (pick the latter), either I blacked out or she kissed my ear. Regardless, when I came to I was weak and needed fluids. (No! Not more whisky! It's free? Well OK.) I would probably have gotten a Prince Albert in such a hypnotic state.

By then the black widow had me in her web - and I swear this is true; cross my heart and hope to lie**** - and she, in case I was wearing a wire, suggested vaguely that I "teach" a small-but-increasing group of single middle-aged women.

"You just have to make conversation with them, and do whatever they want to

(wink)

study. It's the easiest job in the world, isn't it?"

Psychedelic Nonplussed. Like. A. Motherfuck.

"It's up to you," she said as she dropped me off. "You could make some nice money."

Money in my pocket; fuel for both libido and sensationalism (although no one believes the sensational anymore); cold sex with frigid women.

Tempting, all.

This deserved ponderance.


(And if my girl and my folks didn't read the site, I'd tell you my answer.)




* or is that personification?

** Write that on my epitaph!

*** To quote the late Mitch Hedberg, that's too many numbers, man. How did you know I was calling?

**** Psychedelic Prophylactic